


A Dark Smear Under The Sky

by dsa_archivist



Category: The X-Files, due South
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-18
Updated: 1999-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-10 22:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Four way crossover: X-Files, Due South, ER & Chicago Hope. "Contains few allusions to occurrences on any of the shows, no sex to speak of, and absolutely ZERO serious character development....It does, however, contain absurd premises, lurid villainy and gratuitous bloodshed."  ORIGINALLY archived June 1, 1996.





	A Dark Smear Under The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

A DARK SMEAR UNDER THE SKY
    
    
     **Rated R for language and violence.**
    
    INTRODUCTION
    with Disclaimers and That Sort of Thing
    
         This story, my first public attempt at fanfiction, is 
    a four-way crossover involving The X-Files, Due South, ER, 
    and Chicago Hope (in order of appearance). It's just for 
    fun (mostly mine, hopefully yours too) and contains few
    allusions to occurrences on any of the shows, no sex to
    speak of, and absolutely ZERO serious character development
    or thoughtful explorations of characters' relationships and
    psyches. (Also no extensive government conspiracies. I have
    a hard time believing such things can be pulled off
    effectively; after all, these ARE the people who run the GAO
    and the Department of Education.) It does, however, contain
    absurd premises, lurid villainy and gratuitous bloodshed, 
    so I hope you like that sort of thing.
         Comments are welcome at.
         Any time I was unaware of relevant real-world law
    enforcement and/or medical procedures, I made them up. So
    there.
         The title comes from H.G. Wells' description of
    Chicago, as quoted by native son George F. Will. (So it's
    not perfect, but you have to admit it beats the working
    title, "Health Care Personnel in Chains.")
        
         Without further ado, the DISCLAIMERS:
         All sympathetic characters (the bad guys are mine,
    which tells you something about me) are variously the
    property of Chris Carter, Paul Haggis, Michael Crichton, or
    David E. Kelley and their assorted production companies,
    studios, secret conspiracies, and what have you. Used
    without permission. No copyright infringement intended.
    Don't try to stop me - I sleep with a cougar, suckled two
    wolf cubs, and bear a commission from the Creator of the
    universe.
         Lyrics quoted in Part 6 are by Ira Gershwin. Used 
    without permission (which he probably wouldn't have given 
    in this context). No copyright infringement intended.
         May be disseminated (assuming anyone wants to) if
    unchanged and full credit/blame given to author (me).
    
    So much for that. Cue theme music of your choice ...
    I hope you enjoy my story.
    

# A DARK SMEAR UNDER THE SKY
    
    
    (The X-Files / Due South / ER / Chicago Hope)
    by Nina Smith
    
         The towers glittered ahead in the waning light like
    heaps of treasure, with the approaching weather line like a
    black dragon moving in on its hoard. The flight from
    National to O'Hare had been routine - dull, actually - and
    Special Agent Dana Scully of the Federal Bureau of
    Investigation was feeling even more dubious than she had
    when first assigned to the case. She looked towards her
    partner and said, "Would you mind telling me why here, of
    all places?"
         Behind the wheel, Special Agent Fox Mulder didn't take
    his eyes off Interstate 90. "Christopher Ashton Locke and
    Alec Bragg are in Chicago."
         "And how do you know?"
         "Because if they've gone anywhere else, they made a big
    mistake."
         Scully shook her head. "Mulder, that doesn't make any
    sense! The first body, two days dead, was found in Buffalo
    the day after Locke and Bragg disappeared. The next two
    turned up in Geneseo, New York a week later, and the last
    four in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania after another eight
    days."
         "So what's your point?"
         Her lips tightened; the man could be infuriating. "All
    signs are that the killer is targeting smaller cities and
    moving southeast!"
         Mulder shrugged and shifted his hands on the steering
    wheel. "So let's go over the signs. A tenured professor of
    humanities at SUNY Buffalo - Locke - and a drifter with a
    long police record - Bragg - are seen together on several
    occasions before both vanishing. A day later, the body of
    one of Locke's students is found, burned almost beyond
    recognition and the heart cut out. Of the two burned bodies
    found in Geneseo, one, another student, is missing the
    heart; the other, a local auto mechanic, is exsanguinated.
    In Wilkes-Barre there are four burned bodies: a plumber's
    apprentice, heart cut out; a real estate agent,
    exsanguinated; and a local cardiologist and his office
    nurse, both apparently beaten to death with a heavy blunt
    instrument." He paused for a moment, the atrocities hanging
    in the air between them, and turned to look at his partner.
    "What's your theory?"
         She met his eyes a moment before replying. "The
    killings meet the classic serial pattern in a lot of
    respects."
         "And in others, they don't. Too many in too short a
    time; mutilations inconsistent; no evidence of sexual
    assault - "
         "Mulder, what evidence of sexual assault survives
    burning?"
         He didn't respond to that. "And serial murderers don't
    work in pairs."
         "Spree killers do, though. And the number and timing of
    the killings fit that pattern."
         "But then there are the mutilations. Not only that, but
    most sprees involve robbery - we have none here - and guns -
    again, none here."
         Scully considered. "Behavioral Sciences recommended
    going with the serial-killer assumption for now, focusing on
    Bragg. Assuming that Professor Locke is either dead and his
    body simply hasn't been found, or that he's still alive and
    going along with Bragg out of fear for his life - "
         Mulder cut her off. "Forgive me, Scully, but Behavioral
    Sciences, as much as we both love them, are floundering like
    shot ducks on this one. If Locke was kidnapped, how come he
    sold his entire stock portfolio and cleaned out all his bank
    accounts before disappearing?"
         "Nobody said he was kidnapped _per se_. He could have
    gone along willingly at first before recognizing what he'd
    gotten himself into. Or they could have formed a delusive
    symbiosis, a _folie a deux_ ... "
         "Ooh, I love it when you talk French to me." He smiled
    before she could get too annoyed, and went on, "Notice that
    no one is considering the possibility that Locke is in
    control, and Bragg is the one along for the ride."
         "No one except you, Mulder. So maybe Locke wasn't so
    popular among his colleagues ... "
         "I believe the description was, 'Never had an original
    thought in his life, but boy, could that bastard spot
    trends, kiss ass, manipulate students and spread the odd
    nasty rumor'."
         Scully cracked a smile in spite of herself. "The Dean
    really didn't like him, did she? And this book of his seems
    to bear her out." She withdrew from her briefcase a copy of
    Locke's opus THE GRAMMAR OF THE STAKE: GENDER POLITICS AND
    SEXUAL ORIENTATION IN THE 'MALLEUS MALEFICARUM.' "This thing
    was unreadable," she declared. "Makes me wonder if there's
    some sort of academic prize given for the most times you can
    use the word 'hermeneutics' in a single paragraph." Then she
    paused. "But that doesn't make him a murderer."
         "No," Mulder concurred. "I'm more interested in that
    paper we found on his desk at home."
         As if to refresh her memory, Scully went back down into
    the briefcase to replace the book and bring out the
    photocopy of the note Mulder had mentioned. Studying the
    angular scrawl, she began, "This line's from Crowley, I
    know: 'Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law'."
    She noted her partner's nod, and read on. "The rest of this
    is new to me ... 'Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than
    nurse unacted desires.' Charming."
         "William Blake," said Mulder. "One of the 'Proverbs of
    Hell'."
         "Appropriate. And this: 'God appears and God is Light /
    To those poor souls who dwell in night / But does a human
    form display / To those who dwell in realms of day'."
         "Blake again. From 'Auguries of Innocence'."
         "You really DO know your English literature. Test
    yourself on this one: 'I wad ta'en out thy heart o' flesh /
    And put in a heart o' stane'." She stumbled a little on the
    unfamiliar Scots dialect.
         "I had to look that one up," Mulder admitted. "It's
    from the ballad 'Tam Lin.' Traditional; author unknown."
         "Good, because I wouldn't want to meet him." Sliding
    the paper away, Scully again looked to him. "All right, so
    Locke scribbled a few weird quotes before going missing. It
    doesn't necessarily mean anything! Maybe he was just taking
    notes for another book with lots of uses of 'hermeneutics'."
         "Maybe he was," said Mulder, with that smoothness of
    tone that suggested he had other ideas. "That's what we're
    here to find out." The city was swiftly rising toward them;
    he checked the clock on the dashboard. "Meanwhile, we've got
    just about enough time to check in at the field office. Our
    appointment at the hospital is at nine tomorrow morning."
         "So what do we do until then?"
         A half-smile played on his lips. "We listen for a
    heartbeat."
    
         Detective Ray Vecchio, Chicago Police Department,
    sucked in a deep breath and tried again. "Listen, Doc, we
    were referred to you as the source of the first complaints
    about the missing supplies. So if you want us to find out
    who's taking them - "
         "You're damn right I want you to find out," snarled Dr.
    Peter Benton. "The first thing you're going to find out is
    that it wasn't me or, to my knowledge, anyone I know! Is
    that clear?" God, it was hard to control his temper when
    this sort of thing happened. Just look at this obnoxious
    cop, with his rat face and oily hair - maybe this one didn't
    wear a uniform, but his type had been pulling Benton over
    since the surgical resident had learned to drive, had been
    telling him to move along almost since he'd learned to walk!
    Look for the nearest black face, and then they had their
    goddamned suspect ...
         "No one is accusing you of anything, Dr. Benton." It
    was the other guy, the good-looking one in the maroon
    uniform with the stupid Smokey-the-Bear hat. A Mountie, for
    crying out loud. What was a Canadian Mountie doing
    partnering a cop in Chicago? Still, Benton said nothing,
    listened to the measured and reasonable voice.
    "Coincidentally, my name's Benton too, only it's my first
    name. Benton Fraser." He presented his hand; not quite
    grudgingly, Peter Benton took it.
         "Pleased to meet you," the doctor replied, not as
    coldly as he'd planned. "Now what do you want?"
         The local cop took over again. "Dr. Swift told us you
    were the first to report the shortages."
         "Maybe I was the first to bring them to his attention,
    but when I first checked with Pharmacy, they told me that
    they'd had the problem for a few weeks now. Maybe they were
    keeping quiet about it so they wouldn't have the
    administration coming down on them. But then when the
    syringes and instruments started disappearing too ... well,
    Officers, if you'd bother to look around, you'd see an
    emergency room! And do I have to tell you what could happen
    if an emergency room lacked a vital drug or piece of
    equipment at the wrong moment?"
         "No, you don't," Vecchio replied. The guy was right:
    They were indeed in an emergency room, the one at Cook
    County General Hospital, and talking to a resident with a
    chip on his shoulder the size of a Cadillac. Probably was a
    pretty good doctor, though - not that that mattered to
    Vecchio, not being here as a patient, thank God. Pity he had
    to deal with this Benton instead of, say, that cute brunette
    nurse over there in the peach scrubs. Maybe he'd find an
    excuse to talk to her later. Meanwhile - "You know where we
    can get a list of what's missing?"
         "No, I don't!" What did they take him for, a clerk?!
         "Can I help you?" A new voice, female. Both policemen
    turned, and Vecchio felt like skipping; it was the nurse in
    the peach scrubs, on her way over to him. Maybe today didn't
    belong in the toilet after all ... "I'm Nurse Hathaway."
         Now Fraser stepped forward and addressed her first.
    Damn him. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Are you the charge
    nurse?"
         "Yes, I am. This is about the missing supplies?"
         "Yes, it is!" Hastily Vecchio maneuvered himself in
    front of his friend. "We want to catch these - these thieves
    before any more innocent lives are endangered ... "
         Her indulgent smile plainly stated that she wasn't
    buying it. "I'm sure, Detective. No doubt you'll want to
    speak to our pharmacy director and our purchasing manager,
    for a start. If you'll come with me ... " Hathaway led the
    two from the ER, and Benton didn't bother watching them go.
         "Hey, Peter, what was that all about?"
         Benton turned to see Dr. Susan Lewis. As usual, with
    her shining white coat and even brighter golden hair, she
    single-handedly made the ER into an almost pleasant place.
    "Hello, Susan. Looks like we have an international law
    enforcement task force looking into what happened to our
    antibiotics, all those syringes, and half our Demerol
    supply, among other things."
         Lewis watched them as they vanished around a corner.
    "Let's hope they find out fast; if this keeps up, we could
    be seriously compromised sooner than we think."
         "Tell me about it," Benton grunted.  "And let's hope
    the cops don't compromise us any further themselves."
    
         Spring storms had passed in the night, leaving the city
    washed and refreshed in time for a rosy sunrise. Dana
    Scully, feeling confident, paused before the gleaming doors
    of Chicago Hope Hospital to cast a glance at her partner,
    but his expression was as cool and enigmatic as ever. In
    some previous life, Mulder must have been a cat ... or a
    catamount. "You know, Mulder," she began, "these guys will
    be an even harder sell than me."
         "Are you planning not to back me up out of professional
    courtesy, Dr. Scully?" he teased back.
         "Maybe. You shouldn't take me for granted."
         They entered unobtrusively, just two more bees in the
    swarm humming through the hospital lobby, their coats
    flapping loosely like the wings of idle angels. Mulder
    didn't show his badge and ID until they were at the main
    desk, and was quiet about it; no reason to upset any
    overwrought patients or visitors. "Agents Mulder and Scully,
    FBI; we have an appointment with Dr. Watters." The
    receptionist, already bored at nine in the morning, quickly
    rattled off the room number and directions to the elevator.
         Two men were awaiting them among black-and-chrome
    furniture in a quiet administrative office. The one behind
    the desk had to be Watters. No white lab coat over his suit;
    Scully liked that. Early fifties, she guessed from the bald
    head and softly graying beard. He rose smoothly, presented
    his hand and himself: "Good morning, I'm Dr. Phillip
    Watters. It's Special Agents Scully and Mulder, right?" They
    affirmed, showing ID; Scully accepted his hand first. Good
    solid shake, not like a lot of surgeons who made a big show
    of protecting their precious hands. A sort of spare,
    understated elegance about the man, and an air of command.
    Panther eyes. *Wonder what kind of a Bureau AD he'd make,*
    Scully found herself thinking.
         Now he clasped her partner's hand. "Good morning,
    Doctor," Mulder said. "You're the chief of staff?"
         "Yes. And this is Alan Birch, our legal counsel. I hope
    you don't mind that I asked him to join us."
         "Not at all. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Birch." As the
    man rose to shake her hand, Scully was mildly surprised to
    see how small he was. He stood no more than five feet six,
    maybe less, and was slender as a deer besides. But
    energetic, eyes lively, quick to smile. There were a lot of
    lawyers in the Bureau, and the good ones had the same spark;
    best not to write this man off.
         Everyone got more or less comfortable in the black
    leather chairs. "To what do we owe the honor of another
    visit from the FBI?" Watters began.
         "Chicago Hope is said to have the best department of
    cardiothoracic surgery in the country for an institution of
    its size," Mulder began. "Particularly in the field of
    transplantation."
         Watters smiled proudly. "We and Stanford," he replied
    without false modesty, or any other kind. "Vanderbilt was up
    with us for a while, too, but their program hasn't been the
    same since Dr. Frist left for the Senate."
         "Yes," said Mulder noncommitally. "You might have heard
    about the recent series of murders in western New York and
    Pennsylvania - "
         Both Watters and Birch jerked up as if scorched. "With
    the MUTILATIONS? The bodies burned black?" The attorney's
    face was tinged green, and suddenly he wasn't so affable.
    "If you are implying some link to Chicago Hope - "
         Mulder raised a reassuring hand. "No implication
    intended, Mr. Birch. Obviously you are familiar with the
    case."
         "It's been in all the papers." Watters' voice was grim.
    "Informally dubbed the Butcher Burnings."
         Scully nodded wearily. "Yes." How often she - and
    hundreds of colleagues - had wished the media would stop
    doing that sort of thing. The catchy titles did nothing but
    scare people, inspire copycats, and make the hunt more
    difficult ... oh, and sell papers and boost TV news ratings.
    It would never end.
         "You'll recall," Mulder was saying, "that three of the
    victims had had their hearts cut out, and one of the
    remaining victims was a cardiologist."
         "Yes," said Watters. "I knew Dr. Kalman briefly when we
    were both students." He lowered his eyes.
         The agents respected the brief pause before Mulder got
    to his point. "We suspect that the perpetrator, in his shall
    we say unique way, may have an interest in heart
    transplantation. In that case, he might be drawn to your
    program."
         "But to what end?" Watters asked, voice almost too
    soft.
         "That we don't know," Scully answered. "But we're sure
    that, whatever his reason, if not stopped he WILL kill
    again."
         Birch's head shook slowly, as if the joint were rusty.
    "This is not what I want to hear ... "
         But the chief of staff leaned back in his seat, lips a
    thin line within his beard, the cool light of doubt in his
    eyes. "Agent Mulder, we may have the finest transplant
    program in the nation, but it's hardly the only one. How can
    you be sure that your killer hasn't stayed on the East
    Coast, targeting, say, Mass. General?"
         "We can't." It was only honesty. Mulder knew better
    than even to attempt explaining the frequent, delicate
    accuracy of his hunches to this man. "But if he IS here,
    we'll see his tracks. Can you tell us, Doctor, if your
    cardiothoracic surgery department has been missing any
    supplies or equipment lately?"
         Birch and Watters traded a wide-eyed glance. "Not
    precisely," the latter answered, returning attention to
    Mulder, "but our pharmacy has reported some unexplained
    shortages within the last three or four days. I do suspect
    theft - as a matter of fact, I was on the phone with the
    police just before you arrived."
         The agent couldn't resist shooting a knowing look at
    his partner. "We'd appreciate it if you'd tell us when the
    police show up. In the meantime, we'd like to take a look at
    your transplantation facilities, and if you could introduce
    us to the doctor in charge ... "
         "That would be Dr. Geiger. If we hurry we can catch him
    before he goes into surgery." Watters rose.
         So did Birch. "And I have to depose an expert witness.
    It's been a pleasure, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully." They
    returned the sentiment as the office emptied out.
         The four headed down the corridor, overtaking a tall,
    quiet man in doctor's white, with mild dark eyes and raven
    hair dusted with silver. Watters and the agents passed on,
    while Birch detached from the group to walk beside him. "Hi,
    Aaron. Just wanted you to know that Eldridge's deposition is
    in fifteen minutes. This one isn't even going to get to
    court; you can count on that."
         "Thank you, Alan." Dr. Aaron Shutt, Chicago Hope's
    chief of neurosurgery, was only half listening as he watched
    the three receding figures. "Those two with Phillip aren't
    patients," he said with a kind of wary certainty.
         "They're not," Birch replied. "FBI agents. They're
    looking for Jeffrey. They want to talk to him about that
    string of awful ritual killings back East. " He gave a tiny
    shudder. "I can't imagine what Jeffrey could have to do with
    that ... "
         Suddenly the attorney winced as the much taller man
    patted him on the head. "Don't worry, Alan," Shutt said too
    sweetly, "if Jeffrey had slaughtered and burned seven
    people, I'm sure he'd have told me about it." With that, he
    ambled away through the double doors.
         Birch shook his head, smoothed his violated brown hair.
    "This is not respect," he muttered, and stalked off.
    
         "Jeffrey!" The white-coated figure striding towards the
    surgeons' locker room suddenly halted in his tracks and
    turned to Watters' voice. "Jeffrey, the FBI would like a
    moment of your time. Agents Mulder and Scully, this is Dr.
    Jeffrey Geiger, our chief of cardiothoracic surgery."
         Geiger's dark eyes narrowed as the federal officers
    approached. "Phillip, if this is about another triple bypass
    on another three-hundred-pound killer, you can tell our tax-
    funded friends to take their canaries and stool pigeons to a
    veterinarian where they belong."
         Scully's jaw dropped and dangled like a broken branch.
    "Don't take it personally," Watters assured her quietly,
    "he's like that to everyone. Except his patients. Some of
    them." Then louder, to the surgeon, "It's not that. This is
    a homicide investigation, and I have promised Chicago Hope's
    full cooperation." This last said with an iron look directly
    into Geiger's eyes. The soft voice returned as he said to
    Mulder and Scully, "I'll notify you directly once the police
    get here. In the meantime, I and my staff are at your
    disposal if there's anything we can do. If you'll please
    excuse me ... "
         "Thank you, Dr. Watters." Now Mulder met Geiger's gaze.
    The heart surgeon was of only average height, but Mulder
    sensed his own stature wouldn't give him the customary
    psychological advantage here. Behind that proud aquiline
    face was probably an imperial ego - and an intellect to
    match. Mulder took out his badge, Scully following the lead.
    "Agent Mulder, FBI. This is Special Agent Dr. Dana Scully."
    That credential might help.
         Geiger got a good look at the ID before the fed snapped
    it shut, reading the full name: Fox Mulder. A good name for
    this one. Lean build; angular, keen face; hooded eyes that
    missed nothing. Definitely in the right line of work. And
    with that partner, damn lucky; she was gorgeous. Lips fuller
    than rainclouds, sunset hair, eyes like the earth from
    space. Petite, but didn't seem so. Geiger smiled at her with
    only his lips. "Doctor of what?"
         "Medicine," she replied. The ambient temperature could
    have dropped about five degrees.
         "Specialty?"
         "Forensic pathology." Instantly Scully kicked herself
    inwardly for not answering "We'll ask the questions,
    asshole."
         "Then you're in the wrong place," Geiger said in a
    tiger's purr. "MY patients live. And one is waiting for me
    now."
         "We won't keep you long, Dr. Geiger," Mulder replied,
    voice carefully neutral. "Just a few questions." Out of his
    pocket came likenesses of the vanished Christopher Ashton
    Locke and Alec Bragg. "Have you seen either of these men,
    here in the hospital or anywhere else?"
         Geiger took a look. "No. Are you done?"
         "Almost. Have you ever been approached to perform any
    surgical procedure outside the auspices of this hospital?"
         "No. Are you done?"
         "Not yet. Have you noticed any of your equipment
    missing - "
         "No. And you ARE done. Mrs. Jenkins needs her collapsed
    lung repaired twenty minutes from now, and I refuse to rush
    my scrub for this." He turned and strode off, plunging
    through the locker-room door.
         Mulder looked after the vanishing white-clad back, and
    quietly observed, "That man may be in danger."
         "Really," muttered Scully. "I just might shoot him."
         "Scully ... "
         There was a chuckle behind them, and the words, "Can't
    blame you, miss." The young man they saw as they turned was
    as tall as Mulder and even leaner, white coat and blue
    scrubs flapping on his frame like the flag of some ex-Soviet
    Bloc nation. Tousled brown hair drifted almost into his
    tired but cheerful eyes, above a smile that any malice would
    have turned into a smirk.
         Smiling a little herself, Scully showed him her badge.
    "Agent Dana Scully, FBI." She noticed with satisfaction how
    his eyes widened. "What can you tell us about your
    colleague, Dr. - ?"
         "Kronk," he answered, "Billy Kronk. You want to know
    about Geiger?" He inflected the name like that of a disease.
    "He didn't do anything like ... " He looked doubtfully
    toward the door where Geiger had vanished.
         "No, this is routine," Mulder assured him.
         "Oh, okay. Well, Jeffrey Geiger is a surgical genius;
    he's done more for heart transplantation than any doctor
    since Norman Shumway. Outside of that, the man belongs in a
    cage." He yawned. "Can I help you with anything else?"
         The two federal agents exchanged a glance, Mulder's
    eyebrows rising and Scully suppressing a grin, before Scully
    looked back to the doctor and replied, "Thank you, Dr.
    Kronk; you've been very helpful."
         "Always glad to be." He tossed off another sardonic
    smile as they went their way. "So, the feds are dogging
    Geiger," he murmured to himself. "Life is sweet ... "
    
     Vincent Persico stood before his new, unofficial bosses
    and tried not to squirm. He didn't want to look weak, he
    didn't want to look scared ... but most of all, he didn't
    want to look in the bowl. It seemed as if the old man (to be
    fair, he probably wasn't a day over fifty, but the dead-
    white hair made him seem old) never put the damn thing down.
    Now he sat square in front of Vinnie in the big, out-of-
    place black velvet armchair, the steel basin in his lap.
    Running his skinny hands over the sides constantly,
    lovingly; always glancing in as if making sure of the
    contents. He didn't even mind the pervasive, iron-tinged
    smell - Vinnie sure did.
         And the other guy, the one with the shaved head and the
    biceps like bridge cables - hell, he even seemed to LIKE the
    smell. No surprise to Vinnie; he'd seen the bastard's nasty,
    tooth-edged Spyderco folding knife, and his blued 9-mm Smith
    and Wesson. Definitely not playing with a full deck ...
    probably missing the suit of hearts.
         For about the seventeenth time that week, Persico
    wondered how he'd gotten himself in so deep. The old guy
    (there he went again) hadn't been carrying the bowl when
    he'd approached outside the hospital exit at quitting time
    last Thursday and whispered, "I know all about the drugs,
    Vincent Persico."
         Again Persico winced at the memory. He should've had
    the brains to ignore the creep and go his way. Instead, he
    just HAD to stop dead in his tracks and gasp, "What the -
    how did you know my name?"
         The weirdo'd gotten right up in his face then. "HE told
    me your name, Vincent Persico. And HE told me all about the
    drugs you've been stealing from the hospital pharmacy ...
    and all about your little ring of accomplices."
         That sure had let out the rest of Vinnie's air. "You
    gonna turn me in?"
         The other had laughed. Nasty sound, like something
    breaking. "Not at all. I can help you, Mr. Persico ... or
    Vincent, my friend Vincent. Help you expand your operation,
    diversify your merchandise, find new customers. Of course,
    if you're not interested ... "
         THAT was when Vinnie'd done the stupidest thing of all.
    "I'm listening."
         "Then come with me." And like the asshole he was, he
    had.
         The memories nibbled at Persico, shredding his
    composure. The big bald bastard knew it and liked it. There
    he was, standing behind the big chair, tossing that awful
    knife from hand to hand, giggling - Christ, what a sound.
    Almost as bad as the other guy's laugh, but at least the
    other guy didn't laugh often.
         He wasn't laughing now, just going on in that low,
    insinuating voice. "Initial preparations are complete,
    Vincent. This building is now ours, and has been modified
    and equipped as best as I could arrange."
         *You did some job,* Persico thought queasily. When
    they'd first showed him their place last week, it had been
    just another old long-closed manufacturing concern, one of
    dozens exactly like it north of the Loop. Lots had been
    converted into art galleries. Not this one. Persico pictured
    the half-dozen little rooms, bare, windows boarded over,
    ring bolts set in the floors and deadbolts on the doors ...
    the big central chamber that the weirdo had had covered in
    tile, huge lights hanging from the ceiling above that big
    table with the black padding ... refrigeration units and
    portable generators brought in, deep steel sinks installed
    ... and off in the corner of this room here, left of the
    huge thronelike chair, the big wooden crate full of chains.
    Whatever these two were planning, it wasn't locking up a
    bicycle. Hell, Vinnie didn't WANT to know what they had in
    mind. Just so long as it didn't involve him.
         But the old guy wouldn't stop, voice sliding on leaving
    words like a snail trail. "We have barely begun, my friend,
    barely begun. And now it is your turn ... time to repay your
    debt."
         "What the - !" That snapped Vinnie out of his reverie
    fast. "Debt? What the hell are you blithering about - ?"
         In a blur of speed, the bald one pounced around the
    black chair, fist swinging; the floor leaped up and smacked
    Vinnie hard in his thin, acne-scarred face. Choking down the
    urge to cry, rubbing his nose with one hand and his aching
    left temple with the other, he slowly sat up. His blurry
    gaze rose from the Doc Martens up the faded jeans and the
    Nine Inch Nails T-shirt, but stopped before meeting the
    barracuda grin and watery, gleeful blue eyes below the
    shaven skull. "Master doesn't like it when you dis him." The
    words were punctuated with sick giggles.
         "Patience, Alec. I understand Vincent's confusion." The
    son of a bitch was smiling. Could've called off his dog
    before Vinnie got bit, if he was so goddamned understanding
    ... "Have I not fulfilled my promise, Vincent? Your
    operation is now generating twice as much money as before,
    you obtain merchandise from two hospitals instead of one,
    and you have six new collaborators."
         "Yeah, those poor bastards." Persico painfully regained
    his feet; most, but not all, of the defiance had leached
    from his voice. "What'd you do to them - ALL of them, Madge,
    Jackie, Brian, and Rashid as well as the new bunch? Suck out
    their brains?" Ever since his pals from the hospital had
    seen, and been talked into touching, that - that THING ...
    he himself wouldn't touch it if it turned into Cindy
    Crawford!
         "Don't trouble yourself with things you could not even
    begin to comprehend." Again that damn high-handed tone. "Now
    you are to fulfill your part of our bargain. I need - HE
    needs certain things. Obtain them." He drew a sheet of
    notebook paper from the pocket of his black jacket. "Here is
    the list. Alec will help you."
         Swell. "And then we'll be quits?"
         "When you are finished, I will need no more of you."
         Hand quivering only slightly, Persico took the paper.
    "Okay, Mr. Locke." He ran his eyes over it, then felt them
    almost bug out of his head. "You want all THIS?! What the
    hell are you planning to do?"
         The other smiled slowly, black eyes glittering in a
    dead-white face. "Seize the world."
    
         It hadn't taken long to suture the scalp of that
    thirteen-year-old boy who'd wiped out on his new
    Rollerblades, and he was going to be fine. Now there seemed
    to be a gap in the tot parade that was always passing
    through the Cook County General ER, and Dr. Doug Ross saw
    his chance to take a break. Maybe Mark would join him for an
    early lunch, and be interested in hearing his theory.
         There he was over by the desk, apparently trying to
    fill out two patient charts at once. Poor guy needed a
    little time off - a little time off from his whole life, for
    that matter. "Hey, Mark!"
         The tall, stoop-shouldered young man in faded green
    scrubs turned up from his paperwork, regarding Ross through
    big round eyes that his glasses made bigger and rounder. He
    rubbed his thinning brownish hair with a large, gentle hand,
    half-smiled, and said, "Hi, Doug. You need me?"
         "As a matter of fact, you look like YOU need ME. To
    take you away from all this." Ross leaned in close and
    affected a conspiratorial whisper. "Plus I can tell you
    who's been stealing the supplies."
         "Oh, it's you?"
         "Very funny, Mr. Chief Resident. Are you interested or
    aren't you?"
         For a moment Dr. Mark Greene scrutinized his bearishly
    handsome colleague, then said, "Okay, I'm interested. What
    do you think?"
         "Not here." Ross led the other away from the desk
    toward a vacant examination room before he began. "You know
    Vinnie Persico? He's a clerk in the pharmacy.
    Twentysomething, black hair, kind of skinny, spotty face?"
         "I sort of know him. Nice kid."
         "Not too nice anymore. I've seen him a couple of times
    in the last week, and he's gotten really jumpy, as if he's
    afraid of something." Ross thrust his hands into the pockets
    of his white coat. "Like getting caught."
         Greene crossed his arms, leaned back against the
    examination table, and fixed a skeptical look on the
    pediatric resident. "Pretty slim evidence, Doug."
         "I have more. He doesn't take the El anymore. Been seen
    driving up on a brand-new Harley."
         "So maybe he's been saving his lunch money." Greene
    hadn't moved.
         "Mark, will you let me finish? Someone else down in
    Pharmacy has been acting strange too: Jackie Hodges on the
    night shift. Used to be - well, not exactly bright, but
    perfectly normal. Last week she pretty much stopped talking
    except for answering questions in monosyllables - and
    monotone. And she moves around like she's sleepwalking."
         Now the other's posture began to loosen. "I didn't know
    her name, but yes, I noticed how she's changed last time I
    went to Pharmacy. It's disturbing, but why's it relevant to
    the thefts - and your suspect?"
         "Because I mentioned it to Persico last time I saw him.
    You know, just 'Hey Vinnie, what do you think's got into
    Jackie?' He went pale, and kind of stammered out, 'I don't
    know what you're talking about, Dr. Ross.' I thought that
    was weird, so I pressed him a bit, and then I said, 'You
    don't think Jackie knows anything about the stuff we've been
    missing, do you?' And wouldn't you know it: Vinnie turns
    even paler, says he's got to go, and scuttles out of the
    area like a bug."
         Greene considered, hands on hips. "I still think
    there's not much to it; it wouldn't be fair to report him.
    Still, maybe I should talk to him."
         "Maybe WE should talk to him." Ross checked his watch.
    "We've got a lunch break coming to us. Want to take a little
    stroll over to Pharmacy?"
    
         Ray Vecchio entered the main doors of Chicago Hope
    Hospital - then suddenly stopped dead. Behind him, Fraser
    barely stopped himself in time to avoid running into his
    companion. "Ray? Is something wrong?"
         "What the hell are THEY doing here?"
         The RCMP constable followed the other's gaze, picking
    out an approaching couple. They wore long overcoats over
    conservative suits. The dark-haired man was tall, but seemed 
    to be shortening his stride for the benefit of the petite 
    redhead with him. A very attractive petite redhead ... but 
    with an expression that was all business. "Do you know them, 
    Ray?"
         "Don't have to." Vecchio's lips twisted. "Feds."
         Fraser glanced from the detective to the couple and
    back. "How do you know?"
         "You learn to smell 'em. Say, you should be good at it
    yourself."
         Accompanying the two Federal agents were a couple of
    men that Vecchio made as hospital administrators, or
    something like that. Now THAT was what he'd come to see.
    Taking out his shield, he moved to intercept the older one,
    the bald guy with the beard. "Vecchio, Chicago Police."
         The other presented himself as Dr. Phillip Watters,
    chief of staff, and went on to introduce the hospital's
    lawyer - and the two damn feds. Scully and Mulder, Special
    Agents of the FBI. Well, whoop-de-doo. "We got a call about
    drug thefts," Vecchio began to Watters, pointedly not
    looking at the feds. "That been made a big bells-and-
    whistles federal crime yet?"
         The guy fed, Mulder, didn't blink. "The drug thefts in
    question might be connected to a series of murders back
    East."
         "You mind telling me how?" The fed only sort of smiled
    condescendingly; that REALLY pulled the detective's chain.
    "Well, let me inform you, Special Agent Mulder, that we are
    currently also  investigating a series of drug and equipment
    thefts at Cook County General Hospital across town, which if
    you ask me indicates a pretty local origin for this
    particular crime ... so why don't you just shuffle off and
    look for some weird religious cult to persecute?"
         The condescending smile stayed. "Been there, done
    that."
         Off to the side Alan Birch sighed his exasperation,
    then stepped between the two. "Excuse me, but I was under
    the impression that we're all supposed to be on the same
    side. So if we could possibly coordinate this effort, maybe
    it can be wrapped up before anyone else gets hurt." Scully
    nodded, and caught Birch's eye to smile her gratitude. He
    pinked a little and stepped back to the safety of his boss'
    shadow.
         Behind Vecchio, Fraser also nodded his agreement. "It
    really shouldn't be too hard figuring out who has
    jurisdiction in various aspects of the case."
         All eyes were suddenly on him. "Speaking of which,"
    Scully began, "aren't you a bit out of YOUR jurisdiction?"
         "I certainly am, ma'am." Politely he touched his hat to
    her. "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted
    Police."
         Scully and Mulder exchanged looks. Best to let it go;
    there were enough weird questions to answer on the most cut-
    and-dried X-Files investigation. Why worry about a Mountie
    with obvious time on his hands?
         Vecchio looked around him, reminding an amused Watters
    of a park pigeon, and announced, "If nobody minds, I've got
    a crime to solve ... Dr. Watters, can you tell me what was
    taken?"
         "Pharmacy's drawn up a list," Birch answered for the
    chief, producing and presenting a copy. "And one for you
    too." Another sheet was passed to Mulder.
         Vecchio perused the list, lips pursed thoughtfully. "I
    know there's a street market in Valium, Demerol, other
    tranks," he said,  "but why the hell would anyone steal
    antibiotics?"
         "Overseas market," Scully replied unexpectedly.
    Vecchio's eyes shot up; she answered the question in them.
    "There's a substantial illegal trade with certain
    interdicted foreign nations. A good share of this missing
    medicine is probably making its way to North Korea, Libya,
    and Cuba." Her voice hardened a little. "FBI jurisdiction."
         Vecchio didn't answer, just gave her a glare, then said
    to his unofficial partner, "C'mon, Fraser, let's go talk to
    the pharmacy people, and then I'd like to head back to Cook
    County General and see if they've got anything new for us."
         "We'd like to come along," said Mulder innocently.
         Watters had trouble suppressing a grin. "Good luck on
    both your investigations. Please let us know if you come up
    with something."
    
         Tracking down Vinnie Persico took a few minutes. The
    pharmacist first answered Ross and Greene's query by
    offering her own help; then she called over another of the
    clerks. Finally she got the idea that it was Persico, and
    only Persico, the two residents wanted to see, and she
    referred them to the refrigerated storage unit, where she'd
    sent him to do the morning inventory check. "If our pal
    Vinnie is doing the inventories," Ross observed quietly to
    his friend as they headed over, "he's got the perfect
    cover."
         Greene didn't comment until they arrived at the storage
    unit. The door stood about a foot ajar; inside they could
    see a skinny, pale figure in a loose-fitting service
    uniform, hands gripping clipboard and pen. "There's your
    boy, Doug. Maybe I should talk to him first; he deserves the
    benefit of the doubt."
         "Yeah, of course. But don't go TOO easy on him."
         In single file they stepped into the high, chilly
    space. Carefully labeled shelves of carefully labeled
    bottles and IV bags rose to three sides, stark in the
    fiercely bright flourescent light. Persico himself, his back
    to the young doctors, could have been just another piece of
    hospital equipment, except for his trembling. Rubbing his
    own arms, Greene couldn't blame the guy; it was COLD in
    here. Well, maybe they could go someplace else to talk.
    "Hey, Vinnie - "
         The thin clerk whirled as if stung; his eyes were wide
    with fear. "Jesus! Dr. Greene, Dr. Ross, what're you doing
    here?!"
         Ross folded his arms and couldn't resist smirking a
    little in triumph; the astonished Greene fell back a step.
    "Lighten up, Vinnie! We just heard something's been
    bothering you lately, and thought you might welcome a chance
    to talk about it."
         "No, no, everything's fine, guys ... shouldn't you be
    back in the ER? They'll miss you. I'm doing just fine down
    here ... "
         Something was very, very wrong with him. Persico was
    backing up like he'd been threatened, and - this was really
    weird - Greene noticed that the scared eyes weren't looking
    at him, or at Ross. The rabbit-in-headlights gaze was
    fastened on something behind them, hidden from the outside
    by the door. Greene turned around.
         His heart stopped. "Doug," he pleaded softly, "whatever
    you do, don't turn around. Back up out the door, slowly.
    Please."
         Ross froze too, unsure of his next step: turn and look
    at whatever spellbound Mark, or do as he said ... but then
    the voice made up his mind for him. "Sorry, Doug, it's too
    late for that."
         Now Ross turned too, turned to the voice that was
    breaking up into giggles behind them. The man shook with his
    giggles, his pale eyes burning like white phosphorus, his
    shaven head and the gun in his hand gleaming under the
    pitiless light. Behind him on the floor was a sack, half-
    filled, no doubt with more stolen drugs. Forcing a gap in
    the giggling, he hissed, "You guys doctors? Doctors' orders:
    Raise your hands real slow and don't make a sound." The
    residents exchanged a single glance, then obeyed.
         Persico dropped his pen and board, softly moaning, "For
    God's sake, Alec, don't shoot - they didn't mean any harm -
    I know them, they're good guys - please!"
         "Quit your whining," the other commanded. He came
    forward, his leather jacket creaking. "I'm not gonna kill
    them." The giggling started again, around the words, "Master
    needs some fresh lubricant ... for HIM."
         "Oh Christ!" Persico covered his eyes with his hands.
    "I can get him as many bags as he wants!"
         "Fresh is better. Come on, guys. Oh, you can put the
    hands down now. The gun's going in my pocket, but it's still
    gonna blow away the first one who makes a move." Pocketing
    the gun with his finger still caressing the trigger, he
    pointed to the floor with the free hand. "Drop the beepers."
    Again Ross and Greene silently obeyed. "Good boys. Okay,
    Vinnie, grab the bag."
         "Alec, it's broad daylight! This hospital's crawling
    with people - there's no way to get them to the van without
    being seen! We'll never get away - " Pleading, Persico wrung
    his hands, seeming about to fall to his knees.
         "Shut up and lead the way." Gun hidden, he circled the
    captives, positioning himself to bring up the rear. "It'll
    be no problem. Don't you remember what Master said? We're
    under HIS protection."
    
         "Susan?"
         "Mmm?" Dr. Susan Lewis raised her eyes to those of
    Nurse Hathaway. "What is it, Carole?"
         "Have you seen Doug or Mark?"
         Lewis' brow furrowed. "Come to think of it, I haven't.
    Not since about eleven. Have you paged them?"
         "I tried, but no response. Last I heard, they had gone
    down to Pharmacy. I'm going down there myself to check ... "
         The resident glanced around the emergency room,
    observing, "It's pretty quiet; I guess we can spare you for
    a few minutes. Especially if you bring two doctors back. Go
    ahead." Hathaway hurried off toward the stairs, leaving
    Lewis to greet a new arrival, a solidly built man, white
    coat sweeping behind him like a cape. "Good afternoon, Dr.
    Swift."
         Dr. William Swift smiled at her through his beard and
    said, "Did I just see you dismiss the charge nurse? If she's
    gone five minutes, the place will fall apart!"
         "She won't be gone five minutes. She's just gone to
    fetch Dr. Greene and Dr. Ross; looks like they've gotten
    themselves lost in Pharmacy."
         Swift looked dubious. "Greene's got a habit of sneaking
    off shift, as I recall."
         "One incident does not a habit make, Dr. Swift."
         Now the staff physician smiled inwardly. Lewis' refusal
    to be intimidated, by him or anyone else, would stand her
    well in her career. "That's good. Always stick up for a
    colleague, Susan. So, it seems slow today; can you update
    me?"
         "Let's see." Lewis began going over the log. "GI
    bleeder admitted at twelve-twenty, stabilized and sent up to
    surgery - "
         Suddenly the stairwell door banged open; Hathaway raced
    through, something clutched in each fist, her large dark
    eyes brimming with tears. "Carole?" Swift was at her side at
    once.
         "I think we'd better call the police." The nurse's
    voice sounded calm, but her hastily gloved hands trembled as
    she opened them. On each palm rested the crushed remains of
    a paging device.
    
         "Wish the damn feds would stop tailing us," Detective
    Vecchio muttered to no one in particular.
         Constable Fraser was having trouble keeping up as his
    companion stormed into Cook County General. "Remember," the
    handsome Canadian advised, "the FBI does have some
    jurisdiction in this. They seem perfectly willing to
    cooperate - "
         "Yeah, yeah, cooperate. DC's the murder capital of the
    USA; can't they find enough to keep them busy there?"
         "Murder's usually not a federal crime, Ray."
         "Too damn bad."
         Right ahead of them at the emergency room desk was the
    cute charge nurse from their last visit, with an equally
    cute blonde doctor, and three men of varying ages - one of
    which, Vecchio wasn't happy to note, was the black guy he'd
    managed to tick off yesterday. They were talking among
    themselves very loudly and seemingly all at once ... but as
    the two police officers (and the Federal agents right behind
    them) approached and were noticed, the arguing suddenly
    stopped. The nurse broke off and came straight at them, dark
    curls flying, exclaiming, "We were just about to call you -
    I hope you've come in time!"
         "Huh? In time for what?" Vecchio and Fraser looked at
    each other, puzzled; meanwhile the FBI agents noticed the
    commotion and hurried in behind them.
         Now it seemed as if the whole ER staff swarmed around
    the four officers. Hathaway went on breathlessly, "Detective
    Vecchio, Constable Fraser, you must remember Dr. Swift, our
    chief of emergency medicine."
         Fraser took the doctor's hand, while Vecchio tried to
    avoid making a face. *Jeez, another bald guy with a beard,*
    he observed; *when you get a big title in a hospital, they
    must send you for a makeover.*
         Swift was confronting the other pair now. "Who are
    you?"
         Out came the credentials. "Agent Scully, FBI, and this
    is Agent Mulder. What happened here, Dr. Swift?"
         "FBI? We got lucky!" Lewis whispered to Peter Benton
    beside her.
         "According to Nurse Hathaway here, two of my residents,
    Mark Greene and Douglas Ross, went down to our pharmacy
    department about an hour and a half ago. They haven't been
    seen since ... and she found these." Swift presented the
    ruined pagers.
         Scully looked closely - then suddenly turned to the
    low, grim sound of her partner's voice, too soft for any
    ears but hers. "It's begun."
    
         Mark Greene and Doug Ross knew better than to speak.
    The bony, white-haired man in the black suit leaned forward
    from the depths of his velvet armchair, peering at them,
    saying, "What have you brought for me, Alec? Or perhaps
    these are for HIM?"
         "For both of you, Master," answered the bald thug. He
    had the gun out again; he seemed to enjoy showing it at
    every chance. It had been hidden in his pocket as he'd
    herded the two residents out of the hospital and into an
    unmarked commercial van - no one had even looked at the
    group twice along the way. But as soon as they were sealed
    up inside the vehicle, with Persico at the wheel, out came
    the gun. Once they'd arrived at this nondescript SuHu
    address and had to be conveyed from the van into the
    building, the weapon went out of sight again, only to
    reemerge once inside.
         In all that time, neither doctor had spoken. Why risk
    setting off an obviously unstable, armed captor? They went
    upstairs quietly, the miserable Persico trailing behind, and
    were brought here: an old factory-loft room, bare except for
    a crate in one corner and the other man's overstuffed black
    throne.
         Greene could tell that the man wasn't as old as he
    looked. His white hair and almost ghostly complexion made a
    stark contrast to his dark clothes and the soft, inky mass
    of the chair. On his lap he held a steel basin draped with a
    white cloth, stroking it as if it were a cat. The young
    doctor felt cold motion up his spine; Alec looming behind
    them just might be the picture of mental health compared to
    his "Master" ...
         He rose slowly, placing the basin carefully in the
    chair exactly where he'd been sitting, and approached his
    prisoners. "Please allow me to introduce myself," he began,
    "Professor Christopher Ashton Locke, at your service." He
    made a mocking bow, then nodded at their guard. "I believe
    you already know my associate, Mr. Bragg."
         But Ross couldn't hold it in anymore. "What do you want
    with us?" Pent-up defiance spilled out of his voice. "Don't
    expect ransom; neither of us has a pot to piss in or a
    window to throw it out of."
         Locke smiled; his teeth were small, even, and very
    white. "Rather small-minded of you, Dr. Ross. Money means
    nothing to me now."
         "How do you know my name?"
         "HE told me, Doctor. HE tells me all. HE is mine, and I
    am HIS." Ross swallowed hard and remained silent, and Locke
    switched his attention to the other. "Welcome, Dr. Greene. I
    see you don't share your colleague's audacity."
         Greene's response was quiet, even resigned. "Whatever
    you plan to do with us, just get it over with quickly,
    okay?"
         "That won't be possible. Look at me, Dr. Greene. Into
    my eyes. Look at me!" Greene obeyed, meeting the black orbs,
    and something deep within him trembled.
         Locke broke his gaze from the silent, pale man and
    addressed Bragg. "He'll do." Next he turned his attention to
    Ross, who suddenly had the uncomfortable sensation of being
    stripped, layer by layer: lab coat, shirt, pants, underwear,
    skin, flesh.
         Suddenly Locke's eyes narrowed; he released Ross' gaze
    and turned a smoldering look at Bragg. "What have you
    brought?"
         "Something wrong, Master?" The big goon suddenly
    sounded terribly small and helpless; his gun wavered in his
    hand.
         "Something definitely IS wrong, you dolt!" Locke waved
    a hand at the pediatrician. "HE needs innocent blood, and
    you bring me this - this drunken reprobate! The other one's
    acceptable, but THIS man ... " Again hot eyes pinned Ross,
    then turned away. "Useless. Kill him."
         The pediatrician froze in astonishment and terror;
    Greene gasped and did the only thing he could think of -
    grabbing for the gun. Bragg easily flung him aside with one
    sweep of a muscular arm, and leveled the barrel at Ross'
    face ...
         "NO!" It was Persico, scurrying over from the doorway
    he'd been hovering in. "Don't do it! He's NOT useless, Mr.
    Locke; you need him!"
         Locke restrained his gunman with a lifted finger,
    switching his attention to the hospital clerk. "Really,
    Vincent?" he said mockingly. "And what use do I have for
    this handsome but utterly dissolute young satyr?"
         "He's a doctor, sir."
         "I know that. So is the other."
         "You want the other to - to last, don't you? If Alec
    cuts him, he'll probably bleed to death inside of an hour.
    But if Dr. Ross here does it, he can make a slit in just the
    right place, no risk, and even sew it up afterwards! Much
    safer. You'll get a lot more ... blood out of him." As he
    ended his speech, Persico seemed about to vomit - or cry.
         But Locke smiled. "You know, my young friend, I do
    believe you may be right! Very impressive; I didn't think
    you capable of such creative thinking. Hold your fire, Alec;
    he lives for now. Vincent, the chains."
         Persico forced himself towards the crate in the corner,
    and came away from it dragging two sets of standard prison
    leg irons, two loose lengths of chain with small padlocks
    attached, and a couple of pairs of handcuffs. Locke
    carefully watched as he secured the prisoners, Bragg's gun
    assuring that no resistance was offered. "No cuffs for our
    Dr. Ross; he'll need his hands free to work. Very good. Now,
    gentlemen, your quarters await." Locke permitted himself a
    chuckle. "Take them away."
         The captive doctors were led down a bare wooden
    corridor towards one of six plain painted-steel doors
    studded with heavy deadbolt locks. With Bragg, once again
    trembling with giggles, covering them, Persico pulled the
    bolt and swung open the door to what was obviously a
    makeshift prison cell. The only window was firmly boarded
    up; a bare ceiling fixture held a single forty-watt bulb;
    three ring bolts jutted up from the floor.
         "Get in," giggled Bragg, poking Greene in the ribs with
    his gun by way of illustration. Once they did, Persico
    padlocked the two loose chains through the rings, then
    fastened one to each man's leg irons.
         As he secured their fetters, Persico leaned over to
    Ross and whispered softly, "I did save your life, Doc."
         "Yeah, I guess you did," Ross admitted coolly. "Vinnie,
    why are you doing this?"
         The young clerk sniffled. "Mr. Locke knew I was ripping
    off the pharmacy ... told me he could build me a big
    operation if I helped him with a few things." Another
    sniffle. "I didn't know ... hell, anyone would have gone for
    it, not knowing!"
         But Ross shook his head. "I'm not sure, Vin. Not
    everyone sells himself as cheaply as that."
         "Are you finished, Vincent?" It was Locke, casually
    striding in to view his henchmen's work.
         "Yessir." Persico came almost upright as he scuttled
    from the cell.
         "Thank you; you may go. Hurry back before they miss you
    at the hospital; under present conditions HE can only cover
    your tracks for a limited time."
         "But what if they question me?" Persico whimpered.
         "Don't worry. HE will give you strength - enough to
    satisfy their hounds, at least." The triumphant black eyes
    swept the cell like searchlights. "And what have we here?
    Two of HIS slaves - among the first of billions."
    
         "Slip 'em in here," said Vecchio, holding a plastic
    evidence bag open to Hathaway to receive the crushed pagers.
    "It was smart of you to glove up before you took them; now
    they can be dusted for prints."
         "You won't find any but the owners'." It was Mulder,
    voice casual and utterly sure.
         "Yeah? How do you know, Mr. Big Shot Special Agent?"
         "Because we were meant to find those pagers. Whoever
    abducted your residents, Dr. Swift, wants us to know it."
         "But why?" asked Swift, eyes troubled. "That's
    incredibly reckless!"
         Mulder crossed over to Vecchio, took the evidence bag,
    gazed into it as if seeing a vision of the crime. "We're not
    dealing here with the typical garden-variety mudpuddle of
    the criminal mind. Our perpetrators obviously feel
    invulnerable; they're daring us to find them, and absolutely
    sure that we can't."
         Now Benton uttered the question that had occurred to
    all: "What if they're right?"
         There was a moment's uneasy silence before Vecchio
    shattered it, his voice perhaps a little shrill. "Enough of
    that FBI psychological-profile crap! What we got here is a
    drug-theft ring getting caught in the act and making off
    with the witnesses."
         "Which means," Fraser observed, "that we'd better find
    them before they do away with the witnesses. Where did you
    find the pagers, Nurse Hathaway?"
         "On the floor of the pharmacy's refrigerated storage
    unit."
         "I see. Any more drugs or supplies missing?"
         The question took her aback. "You know, I have no
    idea!"
         "That's perfectly understandable, Nurse, given what you
    DID find missing. Thank you kindly ... Okay, Ray, we'd
    better get down to the pharmacy and find out if anyone saw
    anything." But first, the Mountie turned to the two federal
    agents and said politely, "I assume you will be joining us."
         Scully nodded. "Of course, Constable."
         Vecchio scowled at his companion all the way there.
    
         Only minutes before, the cell door had slammed and
    locked; but now Greene and Ross heard the bolt drawn back,
    and the door yawned open again. Standing there were Bragg,
    with his handgun; Professor Locke, holding the discreetly
    draped metal bowl; and a third figure, only vaguely familiar
    - it took Greene a moment to place him as one of the
    hospital environmental service workers. He was holding a
    large glass beaker, a suture pack, some gauze and tape, and
    a wrapped sterile scalpel, and on his face there seemed to
    be no expression at all.
         Ross looked at him with a sour smile. "Hey, Rashid,
    how'd you get roped into this? Nice carrot dangled in front
    of you, too?"
         Not only was there no answer, but in the man's eyes was
    not even the faintest flicker of recognition. For all the
    reaction he'd given, he might as well have been carved of
    wood ... both prisoners heard a faint cold whisper of fear.
         Locke seemed gratified. "I'm afraid you'll get no
    satisfaction from him, gentlemen. You see, that specimen is
    in thrall to HIM, and as such responds only according to my
    orders."
         Suddenly Greene went ashen with a terrible thought. "My
    God, you called us slaves ... " he gasped.
         "Do not be afraid, Dr. Greene - at least, not of THAT.
    Such a fate is reserved for others who lack a certain level
    of mental acuity. You and your friend are poor candidates
    for thralldom; I have other purposes for you." With that, he
    snapped his fingers. The "thrall" turned his head slowly;
    Locke pointed hard at Ross. Just as slowly the head turned
    back and the body moved robotically forward to place the
    medical tools at Ross' shackled feet. "Impressive,
    gentlemen, no?" Locke smirked. "Not ideal in terms of speed
    or versatility, but delivers perfect obedience. Now, Dr.
    Ross, time to prove I didn't make a mistake in sparing your
    life. Fill that vessel."
         "With what?" Ross growled truculently.
         "You don't pick up very quickly, do you? Perhaps I
    SHOULD make a thrall of you. With Dr. Greene's blood, you
    ass!"
         Now it was Ross' turn to go gray. "What kind of a
    monster are you?"
         "One whose patience is being tried sorely, Doctor!" The
    fierce black eyes were narrow. "I can always have Mr. Bragg
    dispose of you and draw the fluid himself, if you prefer."
    Hearing that, Bragg went into another fit of giggles, and
    fondled the barrel of his gun.
         Greene closed his eyes for a moment, then held out his
    manacled hands. "It's all right, Doug. I'd rather you did it
    than he." There was silence as Ross looked at him,
    considering the bowed head and resigned face. Then, without
    a word, the pediatrician picked up the blade and brought it
    against the arm of his friend. Greene winced as the other
    carefully cut a vein, and made no sound as a crimson stream
    slowly filled the beaker. Their eyes did not meet, or he
    would have seen Ross' tears.
         An aeon seemed to pass, the silent victim pale and
    growing paler, before Ross finally looked up at their
    captor. "This thing's just about full and I don't know how 
    much more he can spare; I'm closing this wound!"
         "Very well, Dr. Ross. I trust HE will be satisfied with
    this for now." Locke himself took the beaker as Ross turned
    away to clean, suture, and dress the wound he'd made. He did
    not watch, though Greene did, as the professor drew back the
    cloth on his ever-present basin and reverently decanted the
    blood into it. The physicians could only wonder *What in
    God's name does he have in there?* ... and realize that they
    didn't really want to know.
         Locke nodded to his gunman. "Thanks, guys!" Bragg
    grunted, slamming and sealing the door of their cell.
         Without enemy eyes upon them, Ross slumped forward,
    hiding his face for shame. "Dear God, Mark, I'm sorry!"
         "You don't have to be," Greene whispered weakly. "I
    know it hurt you more than it did me. Let's listen to them."
         Indeed, Locke was going on. " ... the major equipment
    we need. We'll be able to pick up the team there, too."
         "So I don't have to go back to Cook County General
    anymore?" Bragg asked hopefully.
         "I'm afraid you will," came the reply. "One more time
    ... to claim the subject."
         "You found a good one, Master?"
         The prisoners couldn't see Locke's icy smile, but heard
    it in his voice. "A perfect one. A boy, one of the medical
    students from the university, serving in their emergency
    room."
         The fear puddled in Greene's guts; he glanced at his
    friend. Ross was listening intently now, head up, dread in
    his eyes as he heard Bragg ask, "What's he look like?"
         "Like a pleasant dream, Alec. Slender and handsome,
    dark hair and eyes, open face, sunny disposition. Best of
    all ... " Locke paused, savoring the thought, "daisy-fresh,
    tender as a lamb and just as innocent - exactly what HE
    wants!"
         "Oh, God." Greene again turned to Ross. "You know who
    he means, don't you, Doug?"
         The reply came in a horrified whisper. "Carter."
    
         "What on earth is the matter with these people?" Dana
    Scully muttered to her partner. "The whole shift seems to be
    walking in fog! No one remembers seeing the missing men down
    here, no one is sure whether or not they talked to them, no
    one knows if anyone was in the cold storage unit!"
         "Yeah, really," Vecchio grunted in reluctant agreement.
    "No one except the spotty guy, what's his name - "
         "Persico," Mulder said, ignoring the detective's glare.
    "And he claims that he just took the cold storage inventory
    and left for his break without seeing anyone."
         The Mountie looked like he'd rather be pacing the
    hallway than standing in it, but was too disciplined to do
    so. "Even the head pharmacist herself seems completely
    confused about it. How can they do their jobs in such a
    state? What are the chances of the wrong drug or
    concentration getting to a patient?"
         Mulder scanned all their faces before speaking in his
    usual calm tone. "Extremely high - IF this kind of confusion
    is the rule. Which is very unlikely."
         "And how do YOU know?" Vecchio grumbled.
         The federal agent forced the other to meet his eyes.
    "Do you really think a major hospital would put up with this
    sort of thing for more than about fifteen minutes? The whole
    pharmacy department would be sacked the moment any
    administrator suspected something was wrong."
         "The drug thefts weren't reported for a couple of
    weeks!"
         "That's easier to cover up than a whole shift acting
    like they're sampling the wares themselves."
         "Which raises another question!" Fraser broke in
    suddenly. "What's causing it? Is mass intoxication even
    possible?"
         "Theoretically it is," replied Scully. "Through a
    containment breach on a psychoactive substance that can be
    absorbed osmotically through the skin, that is then touched
    by the victims."
         "Okay," said Mulder evenly. "Name such a drug, Dr.
    Scully. One with a powerful effect when absorbed in minute
    quantities - and that only on memory and awareness of a
    single event." They all stared at him; unruffled, he
    explained himself. "I quizzed the pharmacist and two clerks
    on a couple of questions unrelated to the disappearances."
         Vecchio leaned heavily against the wall and rolled his
    eyes. "Yeah? Like what?"
         "The anesthetics most frequently requested for
    gallbladder surgery and the Cubs' prospects for the pennant.
    Answers were focused, tight and aware."
         "Yeah, well ANYONE could be on target about the Cubs'
    chances: exactly zip!"
         "Fine. Got anything to say about gallbladder surgery
    anesthesia, Detective Vecchio?" No answer, and Mulder
    continued. "I'd like to question some of the other staff,
    especially the nurses, as to whether they've seen this
    behavior in the pharmacy staff at other times. The answer is
    likely to be 'No'."
         "And if it is," said Scully skeptically, "then what's
    causing their confusion now?"
         "I don't know, Scully."
         "Yeah, go ahead, pester the nurses," Vecchio grunted.
    "Benny, how about you and me talking to that kid Persico
    again? He's the only one who seems to know anything; he
    could know more than he's letting on."
         Fraser considered for a moment before replying. "If you
    don't mind, Ray, I'd like to try getting permission to bring
    Diefenbaker in here. Maybe he can pick up a scent."
    
         Billy Kronk stretched his lean denim-clad limbs and
    shook dampened hair as he stepped from the men's locker room
    in Chicago Hope's surgical wing. The night shift had been
    hell on a plate, especially when the chopper dropped that
    accident victim at three AM. It had taken until after nine
    to save her ... time well spent. Kronk hadn't bothered to go
    home, and simply crashed in the on-call room for a few
    hours. Then he'd assisted Geiger with that triple bypass,
    and there had been complications adding yet more time to the
    surgery. At least he could leave now ... hockey practice
    this afternoon was out of the question. Better just to pick
    up his equipment and head out.
         The scrubs and the white coat were away for now; the
    hockey uniform awaited ... Kronk sauntered down the hall to
    its hiding place. At first he'd left his equipment in the
    locker room on those days he expected to go straight from
    the hospital to the rink, but a few of the other surgeons
    had complained. (Bunch of damn overpaid prima donnas.) So
    today he'd tucked the stuff into the equipment storage space
    between ORs One and Two. No damage done, no one had bitched
    yet ... but give them time.
         A couple of figures were visible in the darkened room
    as Kronk swung the door open. Techs, probably. Funny that
    they hadn't turned the lights on. Kronk did it for them.
         Funnier that the two men didn't even look up as the
    lights flashed into life. One just kept moving along the
    shelves, tossing instruments into a bag; the other slowly,
    carefully wheeled a bypass unit towards the door, seemingly
    oblivious of the doctor. Mystified as he was by them, it
    took Kronk a moment to notice that they weren't technicians,
    but wore the uniform of Environmental Services. Janitors?
    "Hey, where are you going with the pump?" Kronk demanded.
         No answer. Again, neither even looked at him. Weird.
    Kronk swung into the room and placed himself firmly in the
    path of the man pushing the heart-lung machine. "Hey, I'm
    talking to you! Where the hell do you think you're going
    with the pump?"
         Something hard - human muscle - slammed across Kronk's
    throat. His cry choked off, the surgeon fell back against a
    rock-solid body. His hands rose, locked on the throttling
    arm across his windpipe, pushed with all he had; the arm
    gave a millimeter's way, and Kronk sucked air - suddenly
    something wet and cold pressed onto his face, and he sucked
    a familiar, terrifying stench: ether. Fear pulsed through
    him, fueled a massive, panicked thrust that broke the unseen
    enemy's grip ... Kronk stumbled forward, collapsed to one
    knee, his cry aborted to a groan. The sound was answered by
    a crackle of psychotic giggling, and then the ether-soaked
    cloth clutched his mouth and nose again to turn the world
    black.
    
     Ray Vecchio walked swiftly through the alley towards an
    unmarked gray door set low in the shadowed side of the
    hospital. Used mostly for deliveries and the like, he'd been
    told. Opening to the lowest level. Easy to miss. Rarely
    guarded. Probably used by the supply thieves and the
    abductors - no doubt the same people.
         There were Fraser and his pet, waiting for him as
    promised. The Mountie looked up as his friend approached,
    tried to smile and said, "Hi, Ray. Did you learn anything
    else from Mr. Persico?"
         Vecchio grunted. "I learned that the little weasel's
    hiding something. Matter of fact, I'm sure he knows the
    whole story upwards, downwards and sideways ... but I've got
    no grounds for holding him!" Fraser nodded for him to go on.
    "I start with a few general questions about himself, just
    getting going, you know - and the kid is squirming like
    there's a big lizard stuck in his pants. Then I move on to
    specifics, start talking about the kidnapping. Wouldn't you
    know it, suddenly butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Not
    nervous at all. Get off the subject, and he gets hit with
    another attack of stuttering copophobia!"
         Fraser considered. "Just about the exact opposite of
    what you might expect. That's very strange."
         "What it is, is creepy. I just wish I had an excuse to
    bring him in and give him a once-over down at the station
    house ... So, how's your furry friend doing?" Vecchio looked
    down at the animal. "Won't they let you bring him in?"
         "Well, I DID get permission. But ... " the handsome
    face twitched with embarrassment, "he's got a problem of his
    own."
         Now both officers regarded Diefenbaker, mystified. The
    great white wolf of the North, fearless by nature and
    devoted to Fraser by choice, was now crouched at their feet,
    tail tucked firmly between legs, trembling as if lying on
    ice. "What's with him?"
         "I don't know, Ray. But he won't go in. I've never seen
    him so scared!"
         "Did you try a different door?"
         "We did, but as soon as we started getting close to the
    pharmacy area, he panicked and tore back out the way we
    came." Fraser shook his head. "Whatever he's afraid of, and
    I can't imagine what it is, he won't be tracking those men
    for us." He bent down to give his pet a comforting stroke,
    and was answered with a soft-eyed, apologetic look and a
    puppylike whine of fear.
         "Back to square one," said the detective with a shrug.
    Hearing footsteps, he looked up. "Oh, jeez."
         Fraser looked in the direction of Vecchio's glance to
    see Agents Mulder and Scully approaching. "Good afternoon,"
    he said. "Were the nurses any help?"
         "I'm not sure," said Scully, with a side look at her
    partner.
         He took up the thread. "As I expected, they report no
    previous instances of confusion or memory lapse in the
    pharmacy staff," Mulder stated. "However, the head nurse
    volunteered the information that two pharmacy clerks and two
    members of the custodial staff seem to have undergone
    profound personality changes very recently - within the last
    week."
         "What kind of changes?" the Mountie pressed.
         Scully's turn. "Becoming unusually silent and
    uncommunicative, simultaneously oddly docile. And
    interestingly, all four of the people in question didn't
    show up for work today." She looked up at Mulder. "It's the
    best we can get. We have names and addresses - "
         She cut herself off as Mulder's cellular phone squealed
    for attention. He pulled it out, snapped it open; "Agent
    Mulder." Silence as he listened. "We'll be right there, Dr.
    Watters!"
         "Mulder? What is it?"
         His face was grim. "Another abduction, same MO: smashed
    pager found on the floor of a storage area where the victim
    was going. Equipment also missing. At Chicago Hope. Let's
    go."
         "Hey, not without us!" snapped Vecchio, and four law
    officers - and a much-relieved wolf - were on their way.
    
         Upstairs to surgery again ... Peter Benton hustled
    through the ER, but suddenly stopped when he caught a
    glimpse of the charge nurse. Carole Hathaway was slumped on
    one of the chairs near the wall, head in hands, covering her
    soft dark eyes, tired. No, not tired - drained. And not by
    fatigue, either; some other strain had brought her close to
    breaking.
         As if feeling his gaze, Hathaway looked up to engage
    it. He was taken aback; averting his eyes, he tried to say
    concernedly, "What's the problem?"
         Her face was drawn and tense, her voice a hoarse
    whisper. "Peter ... it's Mark and - and Doug ... do you
    think they're in any danger?"
         The resident twitched his shoulders, glanced around.
    "I'd say that's a pretty safe assumption." An unsuppressable
    sob shook her. Again Benton shifted as if itchy; Hathaway,
    bar none the finest emergency nurse in the city, who had
    been to hell and returned twice as strong - she shouldn't be
    like this. It made him nervous, and summoned up uneasy
    thoughts of his missing colleagues. Better they should be in
    danger ... if the alternative was being beyond danger
    forever. "I'm needed in surgery," he apologized, and
    continued on his way.
    
         The fog was clearing in Billy Kronk's head, letting the
    pain of the headache shine through all the brighter. "Are
    you okay?" came a man's gentle voice.
         Kronk opened his eyes, wincing at the light, dim as it
    was. "Sort of." He tried to raise a hand to his forehead and
    was astonished to pull the other up with it. He stared at
    the handcuffs, then at the leg irons. "What the hell is
    this? Where am I?"
         "Welcome," said the voice beside him. "You're the guest
    of Professor Christopher Ashton Locke and his pet psycho
    Alec. As are we."
         Now Kronk turned to see his companions, one in a lab
    coat and the other in green scrubs, both fettered around the
    ankles and chained to the floor like himself. "Are you
    DOCTORS?"
         "Sure are. Dr. Doug Ross, pediatrics, Cook County
    General Hospital. And this is Dr. Mark Greene."
         That one smiled ruefully. "Emergency medicine, Cook
    County General. You're a doctor too?"
         "Yeah. Billy Kronk, general surgery, Chicago Hope. What
    the hell are we doing here ... " he noticed a swath of
    bloodstained gauze taped to his left arm and felt an ache
    under it, and his voice tensed a little; "and what are they
    going to do with us?"
         "As soon as we know, we'll tell you," answered Greene.
    "How did they capture you?"
         "I caught someone ripping off a bypass unit in OR
    Storage; his buddy jumped me from behind with an ether gag."
    Kronk snorted. "Stinking coward was smart. If we'd been face
    to face, I'd've kicked his ass but good!" Again he raised
    his arms to consider the wound on the left one. "But how'd I
    get this?"
         In response, Greene held up his own manacled wrists to
    show the same kind of injury. "Locke is bleeding us."
         "What for?"
         "Not sure. He pours the blood into a basin he carries
    around with him. We don't know what else is in it. Although
    when you were bled - you were still out cold at the time -
    the other one, that mad dog Alec Bragg, said to save some of
    your blood for their disguises." He shrugged. "Your guess is
    as good as any."
         Kronk didn't offer one. He observed his fellow
    prisoners, noting their shared air of resignation. Suddenly
    he also noted that Ross wore no handcuffs and bore no
    wounds. "Hey, Ross," he said, "why haven't they cut you?"
         Shame reddened the other's handsome face; it took him a
    moment or two to respond. "Because they're forcing me to do
    the cutting." Kronk's incredulous stare told him to
    continue. "While holding us at gunpoint, Bragg gives me a
    scalpel and a vessel for the blood - "
         "Wait just a minute!" Kronk exclaimed. "You're telling
    me that this guy Bragg - this gutless kidnapping THUG - puts
    a knife in YOUR HAND ... and you use it against your
    colleagues like some kind of slave instead of going straight
    for the bastard's throat?!" Kronk's eyes flashed fire.
    "Haven't you got a pair - or is there something in it for
    YOU, Dr. Quisling?!"
         Now Ross' face went redder, but with outrage. "You want
    to know what's in it for me, Dr. Shit-for-brains? Not
    getting killed! Not seeing my friend killed! Hell, I don't
    even want YOU getting killed, although it's one way to get
    you to shut your big mouth!"
         "So you want to shut my mouth? Give it a try!" Kronk
    raised his fists. "Cuffs or not, I'll take you on anytime!"
         "PLEASE!" The cry came from Greene. "Doug! Dr. Kronk!
    The enemy is out there, not here in this cell! If we stick
    together, we might have at least a chance ... and even if
    not, why amuse those psychopaths any more than we have to?"
         His words seemed to bring the other two slowly back to
    their senses. "Good point, Mark." Ross extended a hand to
    the surgeon. "No hard feelings ... Billy?"
         "We ARE all in this together," Kronk agreed, accepting
    the grip. "Truce, Doug. Although the next time they bring
    that knife around, I'd like to be the one to do the cutting
    ... Dr. Wimp."
         Ross' eyes narrowed. "Can it, Dr. Asshole."
    
         "I'm Dr. Lewis; come right this way, sir." She led the
    man quickly across the ER to the nearest empty examination
    room. The thin towel he held wrapped around his right hand
    was sodden with blood; possibly an artery was cut. Not a
    moment to waste.
         Odd, though, that the patient didn't seem to be in
    pain, or even concerned. He'd just walked in smiling as if
    he was happy to be there, and the smile wasn't a nice one;
    kind of sharklike, Lewis thought, especially when he'd
    looked at her. Neither did the young doctor like the look of
    his shaven head or thuggish demeanor ... but as a physician,
    she couldn't let herself be bothered by that sort of thing.
    "What happened to your hand?"
         The man stared at her with an unpleasant glint in his
    watery, bluish eyes. "I want a man doctor, honey."
         Lewis gave him a tight little smile. "I assure you,
    sir, I'm fully qualified to assess - "
         "You're a girl. I want a man." He jerked his head
    towards the doorway. "Maybe that tall guy in the white coat
    over by the desk?"
         He meant Carter. Well, she WAS insulted ... but one had
    to keep up a patient's confidence, and the student would
    benefit from a chance to help with this case. "Very well,
    sir." Lewis crossed to the door. "Dr. Carter? A
    consultation?"
         John Carter looked up like a startled hawk. He still
    wasn't used to being addressed as 'Doctor,' knowing he
    didn't deserve it yet ... even if it DID feel good.
    "Coming!"
         He strode into the exam room, trying to look
    authoritative. "What have we got, Dr. Lewis?"
         Suddenly there was a rattling, and their attention shot
    to their patient. With his left hand he'd seized the
    curtains and pulled them around, blocking the three from
    view. Then he quickly and easily unwound the bloody towel
    from his other hand.
         Lewis lunged forward to intervene. "No, sir! You'd
    better let me do - " The rest of her words were swallowed in
    a gulp of fear; the scarlet-soaked fabric had concealed a
    handgun.
         "Hi," said the false patient, a sinister giggling sound
    soft in his throat, "meet my little friend. You two are
    coming with us." He slid the weapon, still cocked and
    pointed, into the pocket of his leather jacket. "Step out
    slow and normal now and walk out; don't say a word to
    anyone. There's a black van out front, unlocked; get in.
    Front seats. I don't care which of you drives ... 'cause
    I'll be behind you both with my little friend here."
    
         Fox Mulder looked over the people he had summoned
    together, here in the committee room of Chicago Hope.
    Hospital counsel and chief of staff, of course, plus the
    head surgical nurse and the chief of cardiothoracic surgery.
    Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser, again unable to use
    Diefenbaker to track the abductors, were by default present.
    And beside the agent - thank God - was his indispensable
    partner Dana Scully. Time to begin.
         "So far our perpetrators have kidnapped three doctors,
    one a surgeon," he noted Dr. Watters' nod, "and the
    associated thefts involve a heart-lung machine, a monitor
    unit, a defibrillator and assorted surgical instruments.
    Additionally, large quantities of Isuprel, dopamine,
    cardiplegia, epinephrine, heparin and other drugs associated
    with open-heart surgery."
         "So?" grunted Dr. Jeffrey Geiger, slouched at the table
    across from Mulder.
         "If you don't mind, Doctor, I'd like to review the
    earlier homicides in this series." He brought out a thick
    envelope of crime-scene photographs and forensic reports.
    "If you'd pass these around." The agent watched as the
    others shared the pictures and papers, everyone more or less
    getting a look. "As you can see, the first victim's chest
    was clumsily hacked open with a butcher's knife, part of the
    heart cut out but the rest left in. Of the next two victims,
    the mutilated one was opened much more cleanly, the entire
    heart extracted. And at the third crime scene, not only was
    the chest opened similarly, but the murder took place in a
    physician's office - a heart specialist's."
         "And that heart specialist and his poor nurse beaten to
    a pulp with a baseball bat for good measure," Vecchio
    rumbled.
         Mulder nodded and went on. "We see a rising curve of
    precision, as if the perpetrators aspire to the performance
    of actual heart surgery."
         Geiger made a harsh chuckle. "Kids, don't try this at
    home."
         "They aspire to something else, too." It was Alan
    Birch, looking a little green, eyes averted from the photos.
    "A level of pseudomedical cruelty not seen since Mengele at
    Auschwitz."
         Nodding in agreement, Dana Scully continued their
    presentation. "This time the perpetrators have taken pains
    to acquire the actual equipment and drugs required. We're
    concerned that, seeing as they lack the necessary skills,
    they may also be trying to acquire people who have them. Put
    bluntly, Dr. Geiger, Nurse Shutt, that may mean you."
         Camille Shutt's eyes widened; Phillip Watters' eyes
    narrowed. "What kind of surgery are these - these madmen
    trying to perform?" the chief of staff probed.
         "We believe some kind of heart transplant," Mulder
    replied.
         "No, they're not." All eyes were on Geiger. "Your
    wackos may have had themselves a little spree at two
    hospitals, but they didn't help themselves to the _sine qua
    non_ of transplant surgery. I understand that neither we nor
    Cook County General are missing any cyclosporine. No
    immunosuppressants, no transplant. Easy as ABC." He stood up
    abruptly and addressed Vecchio. "Detective, tell us as soon
    as our stolen equipment turns up on the black market, as it
    will. Phillip, when I see Billy stumbling back into the OR,
    I'll let you know. I've got patients." With that, he swept
    from the room.
         Mulder looked after him. "Not much!"
         Camille and Watters both smiled. "I'll see to extra
    security," Watters promised. "What else should we be doing?"
         "Anyone who could be of use to these men may be in
    peril," Mulder declared. "Alert your staff in general,
    particularly in the relevant surgical and cardiological
    departments."
         "Right away. Have you anything else to tell us?"
         "I wish we had more," Scully confessed. "In the
    meantime, we'll continue our investigation."
         Camille smiled. "Thank you," she said with all the
    sincerity of her apprehension.
         "Beautiful." Vecchio rose. "C'mon, Fraser, let's see if
    we can find a witness who can remember being a witness."
         Mulder watched the others go, his back to his partner.
    Wordlessly she watched him in his turn, seeming to feel
    instinctively the disquiet he did not reveal. "Mulder?"
         He turned to her. In his eyes was a pale hint of
    something Scully rarely if ever saw on that handsome face;
    she almost gasped, and reflected it back to him more
    brightly.
         Fear.
         Now he read her eyes, and spoke. "This case ... I'll be
    honest, Scully. Locke and Bragg were four steps ahead of us
    right from the start, and they've been moving incredibly
    fast. And here we are, swimming in circles like goldfish
    bred to feed carp! If we can't find some kind of lead, we
    won't stop them, and if we don't stop them ... "
         His voice faded; hers picked up the thread. "Their
    captives are going to die." To her astonishment, he shook
    his head slowly, subtly. "WORSE than that?"
         "There's something I haven't really told you yet,
    Scully," he confessed. "I knew you wouldn't believe me."
         "And when has that ever stopped you telling me before?"
         He managed a smile. "Good point. So I'll tell you."
    They remained in the otherwise empty committee room. "The
    phenomena impeding this investigation - the confusion and
    memory impairment of possible witnesses; Fraser's wolf's
    refusal to approach the crime scenes; the personality
    changes in people who might be involved - I'm considering
    the hypothesis that our perpetrators are advancing other
    purposes than their own."
         Scully cocked her head, giving  him that dubious look
    she had to give him so often. "Who could they be working
    for?"
         "Not so much 'who' as 'what'."
         " 'WHAT'? Could I trouble you to be a bit more
    specific, Mulder?" She groaned inwardly. *Here we go again
    ... *
         He turned to her long enough to mark her incredulous
    expression. "Not yet. But whatever it is that wants this
    deeply sick operation carried out, it's intelligent, it's
    powerful ... " he paused, "and it's absolutely malevolent."
         She pursed her lips, not sure whether or not to be
    irritated. "Okay, I'll play along. Intelligent, powerful and
    malevolent. Any idea what it IS and what it's doing here?"
         "I don't know, Scully. But like you said, I do know my
    English literature. You read Yeats?"
         "Excuse me?"
         But he was looking away, and had already begun:
         " 'The darkness drops again; but now I know
         That twenty centuries of stony sleep
         Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
         And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
         Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?' "
    
         Susan Lewis tried not to tremble, and failed. She
    looked at her fellow prisoner partly so as not to see the
    fetters on her own hands and feet. "Well, Carter," she tried
    to keep her voice light, but it trembled too, "at least now
    we have a pretty good idea of where Mark and Doug are."
         "Really," he agreed in a quiet voice. He ran his eyes
    around their cell, featureless but for the steel door with
    its deadbolts and the rings in the floor where their chains
    were fastened. "Right next door, I'd guess."
         They sat in silence for a little while. Lewis leaned
    against the wall and closed her eyes, only to open them
    again when she felt her companion's manacled hands gently,
    diffidently taking hold of hers. "Carter?"
         He reddened and looked away, but did not let go.
    "Please, Dr. Lewis ... " It was little more than a whisper.
         "Oh, no, I don't mind! I'm sorry I gave you the wrong
    idea. It ... it makes me feel a little better, too." She
    returned his clasp; the silence settled on them again as
    they sat hand in hand in Locke's prison, awaiting an unknown
    fate.
         A year seemed to go by before the student spoke again.
    "Did - did you see the way he looked at us?"
         "Yes!" A shudder ran through her as she pictured their
    captor and his hot, hungry eyes. "Like we were a couple of
    roast chickens or something ... "
         Carter suddenly echoed her shudder, more violently;
    Lewis clutched his hands a little tighter. Suddenly it
    occurred to her - how a woman's deepest fear could, under
    these strange and terrible circumstances, become a man's as
    well ...
    
         As they stepped from the operating room side by side,
    another craniotomy successfully concluded, Dr. Aaron Shutt
    studied his wife's expression. The nurse's eyes seemed
    troubled, and as she took off her mask, the rest of her
    lovely face confirmed it. "Something wrong, Camille?"
         "Not really ... " She cast away her gown and gloves.
    "I'm just a little worried about what happened to Billy. You
    know I was at that meeting with the FBI agents; they told us
    to be careful. I don't think Jeffrey's taking the warning
    seriously, for one thing."
         Shutt chuckled. "He probably has the right idea. I
    don't see why they're so sure Billy was kidnapped, anyway.
    He's probably home asleep - and after the night he had, I'd
    smash my pager to get a little peace too, if I were as
    impulsive as he!"
         "I hope you're right." Plainly she wasn't convinced.
    Not looking at him, she mused, "Agent Mulder was really
    emphatic about the danger."
         "He's a federal agent; it's his job to be paranoid.
    Don't worry so much, Camille." Bloody surgical gloves
    discarded, he stroked her luminous blonde hair. "I don't
    want that man making you afraid of your own shadow."
         "Really, Aaron? I don't think that was his intention. "
    Now she gazed up at him. Her voice went distant:
         " 'And I will show you something different from either
         Your shadow at morning striding behind you
         Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
         I will show you fear in a handful of dust.' "
    Shutt looked into her uneasy sapphire eyes and said nothing.
    
         "Over here, sir." Dr. Daniel Nyland led the man across
    Chicago Hope's trauma center, eyes on the scarlet-soaked
    cloth wrapped around his hand. The patient - Nyland put his
    age at about fifty or so - was certainly pale and drawn, as
    if he'd already lost quite a bit of blood. Still, it didn't
    seem quite right: his step was strong and lively, and the
    outer layers of the improvised bandage looked, to Nyland's
    eye, bloodier than those within. The falsest note was struck
    in the man's face; it showed none of the pain or anxiety of
    the wounded. His eyes even seemed amused, in a cold sort of
    way. Something about the whole situation felt a little
    creepy to the chief resident - and considering the strange
    disappearance of Billy Kronk, that wasn't a pleasant feeling
    now.
         Creepy or not, a physician had his duty. "Please sit
    down," he urged the patient, indicating the padded table in
    the center of the exam room. Snapping on fresh latex gloves,
    he approached to begin his examination.
         Unexpectedly the patient spoke. "If you would be so
    kind as to draw the curtain, Doctor ... it pains me to be
    seen this way."
         "Oh, of course." Quickly Nyland moved to obey, then
    focused on the bloody hand, carefully unwinding the wrapper.
    "How did you get this wound, sir?"
         Suddenly he halted, frozen, the crimsoned cloth falling
    from nerveless fingers ... the man's hand was revealed,
    sound and intact, clutched on the grip and trigger of a gun.
    A gun pointed at Nyland's heart. "How did I get it?" said
    the patient with a malevolent chuckle. "By soaking a rag in
    the blood of your friend. Now, Dr. Nyland, we must go."
         The panic speeding the doctor's heart couldn't be heard
    in his voice or seen in his eyes - yet. "What do you want?"
         "I want the world, young man ... and you and yours to
    place it within my grasp." He produced a clean bandage from
    his pocket. "Wrap this around my hand and weapon - and
    remember, one false move seals your doom. Then we leave
    together."
    
         Shutt looked out the glass wall of the hospital lobby
    and up towards the sky. The blue hour was rapidly turning
    black as dark clouds mustered like troops and the thunder
    gathered. "Too bad you didn't bring your coat today."
         He turned to the welcome voice. "It didn't look like
    rain this morning," he said with a smile that had nothing to
    do with the weather. He leaned down just enough to touch his
    lips to his wife's forehead. She seemed to him to have
    recovered quite nicely from the scare that FBI agent had
    given her earlier ...
         Camille Shutt smiled and returned the kiss. "I'm pretty
    sure I did leave an umbrella in the car." She drew her own
    coat close around her white uniform and led the way to the
    garage.
         "Getting home will feel good," the neurosurgeon
    commented as he slid behind the wheel of their vehicle. "Can
    we rent a video tonight? Something that has absolutely
    nothing to do with the human brain."
         "Oh, dear, and here I was looking forward to
    'Scanners'!" Camille teased. Her husband laughed, and kissed
    her again.
         Suddenly they heard a click and a cold, guttural voice
    behind them. "Real sweet, folks." Camille gasped as
    something hard and icy jammed against the back of her head.
    "Now start the car, Doc. Start the car, pull out nice and
    easy, and drive exactly where I tell you ... or you'll be
    wearing the pretty lady's brains." The words segued into a
    wild giggle.
         Panic rising, Shutt cast a desperate glance over his
    shoulder to see a bald head gleaming over black leather and
    pale eyes bright with sick pleasure. "Who are you?" he
    demanded.
         "I'm the guy who's gonna blow your wife away if you
    don't start the goddamn car!"
         Shutt swallowed hard, licked his lips, and brought the
    engine to life.
    
         Christopher Ashton Locke moved about the shadowy room
    as quietly and subtly as the breath of a dying man.
    Everything was falling into place as he'd planned - better
    than he'd planned. The errors and failures of the previous
    attempts had been learned from and forgiven. Now he had an
    appropriate place, all the necessary equipment, almost all
    the essential people. That young surgeon, Daniel Nyland -
    safely hidden below in the van, securely chained and silent
    in the dreamless darkness of ether, with a thrall keeping
    guard just in case. Alec was seeing to the couple. He had
    them all in his power ... all but one man, the _sine qua
    non_.
         Locke's dark-adapted eyes picked out shapes, put names
    to them. Interesting office. If not for the shelves of
    medical texts, perhaps it could belong to a theatrical
    producer or such. He noted the top-quality stereo system,
    the tall storage tower of compact disks, even the small
    piano in the corner. So the great doctor loved music. Locke
    chuckled ... once HE was complete, free to realize HIS
    ancient dream, there would be a swift end to all music. All
    resistance. All hope.
         He found his mind wandering back, as it so often did
    these days, to that enchanted time when he'd first
    encountered HIM. Again, the brilliant but utterly
    unappreciated Professor Locke had canceled his office hours
    on the spur of the moment and gone off to the woods. Of late
    he'd been feeling the need to spend more and more time away
    from the campus, away from those lumpish students with their
    stupid questions and sluglike intellects (if you could even
    dignify them with the word); away from those brainless
    conservative drones who had the temerity to call themselves
    his colleagues, who lacked even the minimal vision necessary
    to recognize his genius, who had denied him the deanship
    that was rightfully his. None of them were able to recognize
    the clear heir of Foucault and Saussure, and they dared call
    themselves scholars! Not one of them was fit to tie Locke's
    shoes - or, probably, able to tie his own.
         So Locke had once again taken his rage and
    disappointment out into nature and the cool green darkness
    of the trees, like Thoreau before him (if he MUST compare
    himself with that provincial dabbler). By some unseen agency
    of Fate, this time he chose to wander off the path, breaking
    trail alone through the new growth of spring, until he found
    himself passing near the burned-out ruins of the old Quaker
    meeting-house ... and the call came to him.
         Not a voice. An awareness, a presence right there in
    his mind, below all his senses. Touching, speaking, calling
    to him.
         *Help ME.*
         *Help ME ... and I will help you.*
         *Give ME power ... and I will give you power.*
         *Be MINE ... and I will be yours.*
    Swiftly he sought and found it, bone-dry and helpless in the
    ashes: HIS only embodiment. Though open to the
    communication, Locke was afraid to actually touch. Such a
    tiny, frail vessel; it could never channel and apply such
    awesome power as HE had. To become complete, to realize HIS
    full terrifying potential, HE did need help, Locke's help
    ... and in return ...
         A thrill ran through the professor every time he
    remembered the astonishing vision HE had revealed directly
    into HIS discoverer's mind. Such power, such stupefying
    glory - it was inconceivable; he'd been won over on the
    spot. In that moment he killed in himself all restraint and
    hypocrisy. His genius would no longer be wasted on the
    stupid young dregs of a barbaric society, but dedicated to
    HIM, HIS completion, HIS conquest.
         Humiliatingly, the first attempt proved that Locke's
    help alone would not be enough. So HE led Locke to Alec
    Bragg, another man with dreams and no risk-free way to
    fulfill them. But they could be fulfilled safely in HIS
    service, and after the job was done, no limit on Bragg and
    his dreams would remain. Once Locke had made the
    presentation to the young drifter, signing him on was easy;
    the fellow hadn't even objected to calling Locke "Master" as
    he deserved.
         And any other help required was easy enough to get.
    Poor hapless Vincent, for example; Locke snickered at the
    thought. Once HE had directed Locke to the young fool, said
    young fool's own greed was enough to snare him, his own fear
    and weakness enough to keep him in line. As for brute labor,
    no seduction was necessary for that, just a way to trick
    enough troglodytes into touching HIS vessel that HE might
    apply HIS power against them. Of course, after HE was
    complete, HE would be able to do HIS own touching.
         HE had made clear what HE needed; although the process
    details were spotty, trial and error had paying off ever
    since, and tonight they would get it right at last. Then all
    humanity would kneel to HIM ... and kiss the feet of HIS
    paraclete, Christopher Ashton Locke.
         Outside the wide window, lightning suddenly lashed the
    night, which groaned and began to weep wildly. Locke exulted
    in the storm; the rain would further deter pursuit and help
    HIM conceal HIS helpers' movements. As if any such help was
    needed! Even in HIS present state, HIS power was such as to
    render their pathetic security precautions a mockery, and
    their own foolish confidence weakened them further. Even now
    someone was swiftly approaching the dark office, unarmed,
    unsuspecting and utterly alone ...
    
         A muscular figure clad in blue scrubs hurried down a
    wide corridor through the Chicago Hope office annex. Jeffrey
    Geiger was mystified; stat-paged to his own office, with no
    explanation? This was a new one. Probably some frightened
    patient had taken a sharp turn for the worse and the
    relatives were anxiously awaiting him, something like that;
    best to hurry.
         If someone was waiting, why was it dark in there? He
    pushed open the door, snapped on the light ... "So at last
    we meet, Dr. Geiger."
         The heart surgeon stared incredulously at the black-
    clad, bone-thin, unnaturally pallid man who sat casually on
    the edge of the desk, hands in pockets. One thing was
    certain: he was no patient - this was one of the faces shown
    to Geiger by the FBI agents that morning. "Who are you, and
    what are you doing in my office?"
         "I am Professor Christopher Ashton Locke. Perhaps you
    have heard the name." His slow smile was like the drawing of
    a blade. "Soon the entire world will tremble at it." Now one
    hand slid from its sheltering pocket and rose, gripping a
    small, bright pistol. "Come with me."
    
         Jeffrey Geiger did look up as the door of his prison
    opened - but slowly, casually. Why give the bastard the
    satisfaction of seeing hope? And there he stood in the
    doorway, black and white like gamblers' dice, with shining
    grin and gloating eyes. "May I assume you are ready, Dr.
    Geiger?"
         "To die? Always." He answered with his own thin smile.
         "Oh, not yet, Doctor. Perhaps not at all. Are you ready
    to prepare for surgery?"
         Geiger's cool smile vanished. "Surgery? What the hell
    are you talking about?"
         Locke chuckled. "Do you think I brought you here for
    the pleasure of your company? Surgery is a paradox -
    inflicting wounds in order to bring healing - and you are
    the master of the deepest level of that paradox. It is your
    hands I need, the miraculous hands of the famous Jeffrey
    Geiger."
         "My hands." Geiger raised them, the chain whispering
    between his wrists. "Come a little closer, and I'll show you
    what miracles I can do with them."
         "I would not advise that." Locke swung the door a
    little wider to reveal one of his thralls leveling a pistol.
    "Their aim is poor, but at point blank range, no matter.
    Rise and come with me." Another thrall entered with a key,
    clumsily unlocking Geiger's fetters from the ring bolt,
    removing his handcuffs and leading him out.
         Locke brought his prisoner to a scrub sink beside a
    steel door. Silent for once - but for curiosity and not fear
    - Geiger donned the waiting mask and cap, then slowly,
    carefully washed and disinfected his hands, casting a
    sidelong glance at his captor, who was himself donning mask
    and latex gloves. *What DOES this wacko have in mind?* he
    wondered warily.
         The surgeon held up his dripping hands. "Well?"
         A nod to the unarmed thrall, and the steel door was
    unlocked and opened. "Enter, Dr. Geiger. Your surgical team
    awaits."
         Geiger stepped through - and halted in his tracks. He
    stood in a bizarre parody of an operating room. Tile walls
    and masses of sophisticated equipment gleamed under the
    blazing lights; a laden instrument tray sparkled beside the
    table, which bore a fully draped, unmistakably human form.
    Beside it stood a man and a woman, masked, gowned and
    gloved. By their eyes alone Geiger knew them: Daniel Nyland
    and Camille Shutt. Fear rose in his throat as he noticed the
    shackles on their ankles, chained to rings set around the
    base of the operating table.
         There were others. They were bound in leg irons and
    handcuffs, fettered to bolts in the floor near the bare
    north wall of the room. All wore surgical masks and sat on
    the floor in various states of rage or resignation; Geiger
    recognized a seething Billy Kronk instantly, but not the two
    other men nor the woman. Keeping watch over the prisoners
    was a masked, gloved, armed Alec Bragg, his pale eyes
    glittering with sick delight. Several more armed thralls
    scattered about the room backed him up.
         As Geiger stood spellbound by incredulity and horror,
    Camille stepped forward to meet him with towel, gown and
    gloves as she had countless previous times - but never
    before with steps made tiny by fetters, dragging a chain
    behind her, her blue eyes moist with fear. Automatically the
    surgeon dried his hands, stepped into the gown, felt the
    gloves snap tightly on ... "Camille," he whispered, "what
    the hell is this?"
         "Dear God, Jeffrey, I wish I knew!" she whispered back,
    almost sobbing. "Please, do you know what's become of
    Aaron?"
         A steel hand gripped Geiger's heart and squeezed. "They
    got him, too? Oh God ... I had no idea!"
         A prod from the gun at his back sent Geiger to his post
    on the right side of the draped body. Nyland stood directly
    across; their tense brown eyes met above the masks, but no
    words were spoken. The room was silent but for the rattle
    and click of Geiger's chain being locked into place; then
    Locke stepped forward to announce, "You may begin."
         Geiger turned, eyes fierce on the enemy. "BEGIN!?" he
    snarled. "Begin what?"
         Locke's own eyes narrowed. "I was sure you would get it
    by now; the intelligence of doctors is grossly overrated!
    You are here to perform a heart transplant, Doctor; I
    strongly suggest that you get to it. I have hostages." He
    nodded toward the group of captives at the north wall.
         "A heart transplant? Are you SERIOUS?"
         A gloved finger tapped against the sheeted form before
    Geiger. "Here is your patient. Begin."
         The surgeon flashed a desperate glance about the room.
    Six fellow captives, eyes either sullen or frightened but
    all looking to him; some mindless human robots, under God
    only knew what sinister influence; a giggling madman; and
    Locke. No hope anywhere. Maybe he could stall for time ...
    "Has this patient been prepped for surgery?"
         "Why don't you look at him yourself?" said Locke
    mockingly.
         Geiger looked at him silently for a moment, then
    reached over to draw back the sheets. Locke stepped back to
    give him room. The sky-blue drapes came away ... "God in
    Heaven!" Geiger cried.
         Before him lay a man, a very young man, wide awake,
    naked under the lights. Wide straps crisscrossed his body
    everywhere except his chest; his lower torso, neck and all
    four limbs were bound fast to the table. He couldn't move a
    muscle. A strip of duct tape sealed his mouth. Brown eyes
    wide with helpless terror looked straight up at the heart
    surgeon, pleading silently, desperately, for mercy ... "Who
    is this?!" Geiger demanded, panic touching his voice.
         The woman at the north wall answered. "His name is John
    Carter. He's a med student at the Cook County General ER ...
    and our friend." The two other strangers beside her nodded.
         "God," Geiger repeated softly. He looked down at the
    man - little more than a boy, really. So utterly powerless,
    so frightened ... Geiger looked away to the members of his
    "team." Camille was looking at Carter, tears forming in her
    eyes. Nyland returned his chief's gaze with a silent
    question: *What now?*
         Stall some more, perhaps. "This man hasn't been
    prepped," he informed their captor.
         Locke's eyes gleamed maliciously. "Prep him."
         "I can't perform surgery under these conditions! We
    don't even have a monitor tech or a perfusionist - "
         "Very well. Alec!"
         "I got it, Master!" The bald beast signaled a thrall,
    who released the woman and one of the men from the bolts and
    handcuffs, brought them forward and chained them near the
    operating table.
         "Nurse Shutt," came Locke's oily voice, "gowns and
    gloves for your colleagues, if you please. May I present Dr.
    Susan Lewis, your monitor technician. You already know Dr.
    William Kronk, your perfusionist."
         Silently Camille obeyed; Geiger took advantage of the
    diversion to lean across the table and whisper to Nyland,
    "This isn't some kind of sick joke, is it?"
         "I don't think so," the younger surgeon replied evenly.
         "I hate it when you're right." Now Geiger turned back
    to Locke. "Let me commend you on a nice bit of
    improvisation, but what's the point of having people here to
    watch the monitor and run the pump when neither is hooked up
    to the patient?"
         "As I thought I'd already made crystal-clear, Dr.
    Geiger, that is your problem to solve. Hook him up."
         "Now wait just a minute!" The heart surgeon raised both
    hands placatingly, trying to sound reasonable. "If you don't
    mind my asking, what's missing from this picture? Among
    other things, where's the donor heart?"
         "I have the donor heart," Locke replied in his silkiest
    voice. "It has been in my keeping for weeks, undergone three
    failed attempts to implant it in a proper body ..." The voice 
    hardened like sword-steel in fire. "This attempt will not fail 
    - now that I have all of you." He crossed to a steel shelf, 
    picked up a basin and brought it over to his captives at the 
    operating table.
         Kronk gave a start as he recognized the metal bowl. He
    leaned over to Nyland and whispered, "Danny ... that psycho
    poured some of MY blood in there!"
         "But why?" the resident whispered back.
         "We're probably about to find out."
         The enemy held the bowl out to Geiger. "Behold, Doctor:
    HIS heart. HIS heart, needing only the proper body -
    healthy, strong, unspoiled in flesh and spirit - that HE may
    live. Live ... and rule!"
         Geiger looked - and instantly recoiled in sick
    revulsion. It was a heart - it HAD to be a heart - but it
    lay not on a cool preserving bed of ice, but in a pool of
    warm blood ... human blood. The size and shape were right,
    the chambers and valves intact - but not red; instead a
    glistening moist black. Most dreadful of all, it did not lie
    quiescent and cold, waiting for the electric kiss of the
    defibrillator to rouse it again; it BEAT, throbbed, sent
    ripples through its grisly bath ... alive.
         Behind Geiger, Nyland went white as a winding-sheet;
    Kronk almost retched behind his mask; Camille let out a sob
    of terror; Lewis felt her knees give way, and grabbed the
    table for support. Carter's eyes misted with fearful
    questioning as he looked up at his friend; she gasped her
    answer, "Carter - John, it's horrible ... oh, God!" Lewis
    covered her eyes with her gloved hands and could say no
    more.
         "Good Lord, Dr. Geiger," Nyland murmured, "what's the
    ischemic time on that thing, about a thousand years?"
         Geiger pulled his gaze from the hideous object and
    rumbled in a dangerously low voice, "I don't know what
    you're up to, Locke, but you're not telling us to transplant
    a heart into a patient - this is implanting a parasite into
    a host!"
         "Call it what you will," Locke said smoothly, "but it
    will work."
         "You don't know what the hell you're talking about!
    You're telling me to murder this boy - all the
    immunosuppressants in the world won't keep his body from
    rejecting THAT!"
         "Really, Doctor." A chuckle that sounded like snapping
    bones. "Do you think HE would permit HIS new body to cast
    HIM out? Not even a drop of your precious immunosuppressants
    will be necessary. Now do it!"
         "I can't. I couldn't do this ... procedure even if I
    wanted to," the prisoner declared. "This patient - or more
    correctly, victim - is wide awake. We don't have a
    ventilator, volume or gas monitors, an infusion pump or -
    without which none of the above would make any difference at
    all - a competent anesthesiologist."
         "Because none is needed," was the cold reply. "As long
    as the subject is unable to move enough to disrupt the
    procedure, it WILL succeed."
         Horror flashed around the room like live electric
    current. At the wall, Mark Greene leaped to his shackled
    feet with a cry of protest, only to be struck back to the
    floor by a gleeful Bragg; Doug Ross came to his aid, but the
    pediatrician could not avert his shocked gaze from the
    doomed man bound to the operating table. Below the monitor,
    Lewis gasped; she met Carter's panicked eyes and felt tears
    form in her own.
         For a moment Geiger was speechless; then he said,
    almost too calmly, "Let me see if I've got this straight:
    You want me to crack the chest of this obviously perfectly
    healthy man, cut out and discard his perfectly healthy
    heart, and in its place sew that - that THING ... without
    anesthesia?"
         "Precisely, Doctor."
         "You are nuts, stone evil or both." Dark eyes blazed
    above Geiger's mask; he folded his arms. "I won't do it."
         "I have hostages," Locke reminded him, nodding his head
    toward Ross and Greene. "You will obey ... or they will
    die." Hearing that, Bragg erupted in giggles as he lovingly
    stroked his gun, now aimed at the exposed nape of Greene's
    neck.
         "Really." Coolly the surgeon turned to regard the two
    prisoners. "Gentlemen?"
         Greene slowly, resignedly raised his head. "Let him
    shoot. It'd be a mercy."
         "Yeah," Ross agreed bitterly. "None of us is going to
    leave this place alive anyway."
         Geiger's mask hid his smile and the pride shining in
    it. He turned back to the enemy. "There's your answer,
    Locke; looks like your hostages are perfectly willing to
    sacrifice their lives. And so am I." He pulled down the
    mask. "Do as you like to me, but I will NOT be a party to
    this unspeakable butchery!" Calling it butchery was easy; he
    dared not voice his own mysterious but absolute certainty
    that the wretched young man WOULD survive with the black
    heart within him ... and Geiger somehow knew that compared
    to that doom, the unimaginable cruelty of radical surgery on
    feeling flesh would seem as nothing, absolutely nothing at
    all.
         In response, Locke drew down his own mask. A smile of
    pure evil gleamed across his face. "I was almost hoping you
    would say that, Dr. Geiger." He stepped away to address one
    of his impassive armed thralls. "Inform Vincent that it is
    time to bring in our secret weapon."
         The fear went crackling around the room again. Greene
    and Ross traded an uneasy glance; they were reprieved for
    now, but at what cost? Camille's eyes went to the face of
    the pinioned Carter, trying to offer comfort as her gloved
    hand stroked his cheek. Lewis looked at the nurse, feeling
    tears rise. Kronk was muttering with all the pent rage of
    utter impotence, "What secret weapon?"; Nyland quietly
    shushed him, desperate not to know the answer.
         The human robot departed and too quickly returned. With
    it came a skinny, lank-haired young man recognized as Vinnie
    Persico by three of the prisoners. He was looking at the
    tops of his sneakers and twitching with nervous shame,
    leading another figure ... suddenly, the nature of Locke's
    'secret weapon' was terribly apparent.
         It was Dr. Aaron Shutt.
         The neurosurgeon stood before them unmasked, in his
    shirtsleeves, even more elaborately chained than they: steel
    links ran from his leg irons to a shackle encircling his
    waist, to which his handcuffs were also fastened. But he
    held himself erect as if he didn't notice the bonds. His
    gaze flashed across all their faces, coming to rest upon
    Camille's; his expression mingled relief at seeing her
    unharmed with dread of sinister, unspoken possibilities. She
    returned the gaze, a tear dampening her cheek.
         Next, still silent, he looked to Geiger, his eyes alone
    conveying the message to his dearest friend: *Don't worry
    about me, Jeffrey. Be strong.*
         "Thanks, Vinnie," said Bragg with wet-lipped relish.
    "I'll take it from here!" He pocketed his gun, stepped over
    to a nearby equipment shelf, reached into a narrow box, and
    withdrew something. A whip. Thick handle of carved wood,
    heavy braided leather lash, with small sharp bits of wire
    glinting through the braid. Shutt licked his lips and said
    nothing.
         As the wretched Persico stepped back, Bragg strode over
    to the hostage. With a single expert blow of his fist, he
    struck Shutt down to his knees and stood hovering above him,
    slowly swinging the lash, looking towards his "Master."
         Locke's gaze first pinned Persico. "Do stay with us,
    Vincent; I want you to see this. You might find it
    instructive." Then he raked the room with his eyes, savoring
    the fear and revulsion on his captives' faces. He stopped
    for a longer look at Camille, enjoying her misery and the
    tears spilling down her face, before finally facing the
    heart surgeon. "Time to make your decision, Dr. Geiger," he
    said hungrily, his tongue-tip oiling his lips. "Choose
    between your precious Hippocratic Oath and the torture -
    until death - of one you love."
         All the color had drained from Geiger's face.  "Not
    even you would do this, you bastard," he breathed.
         "I know you're a gambler, Doctor, but I advise you not
    to gamble with me," Locke rumbled back. "I've not come this
    far to let you or anyone else stop me - HE will live! Now
    choose!"
         Geiger turned away and squeezed his eyes shut. Leaning
    heavily on the operating table with both hands, he let the
    room fester in silence ... Shutt's voice broke through.
    "Don't harm that man, Jeffrey."
         "Well, Doctor?" Locke received his answer: a slow,
    pained shake of Geiger's head. "I see. Alec! You may begin."
         "Right, Master!" The whip rose slowly and fell hard,
    metal barbs gleaming silver one moment and glistening red
    the next. The moans and gasps of the other prisoners sounded
    around him, but Shutt himself made no sound, not at the
    first blow, nor the second, nor as the lash rose and fell
    and rose and fell, tearing his clothes and the flesh beneath
    them to scarlet ribbons.
         Geiger couldn't look; he trembled at the sound of every
    blow against his friend, as if the whip struck him as well.
    Camille couldn't look away, weeping, gaze gripped by a
    vision out of her own private hell. "Please, Mr. Locke," she
    cried, "take me, not Aaron!"
         "Very noble of you, my dear," he sneered, "but I
    understand that Dr. Geiger's fondness for you is rather
    paltry compared to that for his closest friend. And amusing
    as this can be, my intentions are entirely practical."
         The operating room, the other prisoners, all had faded;
    nothing was real except Aaron and his pain, and the man
    beside her who could end it ... "Dear God, Jeffrey!" she
    sobbed. "How can you bear to let him suffer like this?!"
         The surgeon raised his head to look at her. Camille
    trembled when she saw his face, anguish deep in every line,
    his eyes streaming tears like hers. "I can't, Camille," he
    whispered, and let his head fall again.
         Alec Bragg felt his pulse beating harder and hotter
    with every stroke. He'd never gotten off like this before:
    not while cutting those assholes' arteries back East, not
    when slicing the hearts out of those kids, not even when
    pounding that ugly old doctor and his nigger nurse into mush
    (although that DID come close), not while torching the
    corpses. And CERTAINLY not while setting those stray cats on
    fire, the best he could do before Master had come along with
    his wild story and the weird, living black heart to prove
    it. The man had kept his promises for sure; he'd promised
    too that once HE was complete (whatever that really meant),
    Alec would have whole cities to burn, whole populations at
    his mercy, to play with as he pleased ... Alec wasn't too
    sure about that part, but he was willing to wait and see. In
    the meantime, maybe he could get this stiff-necked asshole
    of a doctor to let out just one good scream ... shit, the
    son of a Jew bitch wasn't as soft as his puppy-dog eyes made
    him look. Time to give the arm a little rest.
         The cadence of tear and slash across his back suddenly
    slacked for one merciful moment; Shutt heaved a deep,
    shuddering sigh out of the depths of his torment ... then
    Bragg pushed up close and leaned over, panting his foul
    breath in the prisoner's anguished face, his priapic bulge
    jabbing hard against the wounded back. "Don't like it, do
    you, jewboy? Soft rich kike doctor can't take a little pain?
    Well, where's your God now, kike? He can't save you! Maybe
    if you beg your friend the other Jew bastard to shut up and
    cut like a man, I can stop hurting you - you'd love me
    forever for that, wouldn't you, Jew scum?"
         Slowly Shutt raised his head. The suffering in his eyes
    had been burned away by fury; he cast a deadly look at his
    tormentor and calmly answered, "Lay on, you algolagnic
    monorchid Nazi son of a bitch."
         Bragg was happy to oblige, again beating out the
    excruciating rhythm. Shutt felt himself weakening; to his
    shame, he finally could not hold back a soft gasp of agony,
    then another.
         "For the love of God, Dr. Geiger," cried Nyland, "do
    something!"
         *I must.* Geiger slowly raised his head again. His eyes
    met those of the miserable Carter.  *Poor boy. I can't do
    this to him ... * Suddenly he gave a start; was his tear-
    blurred vision misleading him, or had the victim nodded? No,
    he'd seen it, and saw it again; using the little slack his
    bonds left him, Carter was nodding, silently saying 'yes'
    the only way he could, giving his permission ... and his
    life. With all eyes on him, Geiger suddenly knew what he had
    to do.
         He choked back his final sob, and the old air of
    command returned to his voice. "Camille," he ordered, "shave
    the patient's chest." Locke heard, and raised a hand to
    Bragg; the whip went slack and still.
         The nurse heard, and froze. "Jeffrey? You mean you're
    ... " She couldn't finish. Now that the possibility was
    turning into reality, Camille felt herself whipsawed between
    the anguish of the man she loved, and that of the innocent
    lying before her.
         "Shave him, Camille," Geiger ordered gently yet firmly.
    She'd heard that tone before. The nurse wiped her eyes on
    the sleeve of her gown and picked up a razor from the
    instrument tray.
         "Oh, God, no ... " Shutt's voice couldn't rise much
    above a whisper, but he tried. "Don't hurt him, Jeffrey -
    our oath ... I'm done for anyway!"
         "Aaron, please." The same tone, velvet on steel.
    "Professor Locke, I assume you want to watch?"
         "But of course." The enemy pulled his mask back up,
    hiding his diabolical smile, and walked around the table to
    take up a clear viewing post a little behind and to the left
    of Nyland. The bowl was cradled in his arms. "Will I see
    everything from here?"
         "That's perfect," Geiger declared, pulling up his own
    mask.
         "Very good. Just ask me for the heart when it's
    needed."
         Geiger didn't answer. Impassively he watched Camille
    shave and cleanse Carter's chest, then spread it with a
    brown wash of povidone-iodine solution. For the first time,
    her hand trembled.
         All eyes were on the surgeon and on the man pinioned
    before him. Lewis sobbed quietly; Nyland and Kronk exchanged
    an uneasy glance. Excluded from the ghastly mockery of
    surgery, Ross and Greene huddled closely together. "My God,"
    Greene whispered to his friend, "I can't believe they're
    really going to do it - they CAN'T do it ... is there
    nothing we can do to save him, Doug?"
         Ross brought up his shackled hands to give the other's
    shoulder a comforting squeeze. "I can't believe they're
    going to do it either, Mark, but there IS nothing we can
    do."
         The nurse finished her task and stepped back beside the
    instrument tray. Now Geiger approached. He gazed down into
    the young man's eyes; they were no longer frightened.
    Carter's face showed the peace of hope abandoned. As he
    returned Geiger's gaze, a single tear flowed free; then he
    closed his eyes.
         Geiger closed his eyes too, for a moment, then opened
    them again. He held out his right hand to the nurse.
    "Knife." But Camille hesitated. He repeated the command.
    "Knife." She inhaled sharply, picked up the long, bright
    blade, placed it into the waiting hand. It moved slowly
    over, as if the instrument were guiding the surgeon, and
    hung poised over John Carter's naked bosom.
         The only sound in the operating room was the soft,
    steadily increasing pulsing of the disembodied heart.
         Geiger drew a deep breath. Suddenly steel flashed as
    his arm whipped back, snapped forward - a shriek and a blast
    of red erupted from Locke's face. The scalpel had hit dead
    on exactly where Geiger had thrown it: the deep black center
    of Locke's left eye.
         Locke stumbled back, the instrument handle protruding
    from the grisly scarlet hole where his eye had been, blood
    spurting from it and splashing from the basin gripped in his
    unsteady hands. Stunned, nobody else moved or made a sound
    until a wide grin split Kronk's face behind his mask. "Well
    all right, Geiger!"
         The exultant voice seemed to snap Bragg out of his
    shock and energize the thralls. A second later the bald goon
    was pressing his gun under Geiger's chin; the mind-chained
    slaves were bringing their own to bear on the other
    prisoners ...
         "HOLD YOUR FIRE!" The thralls lowered their weapons at
    once; all other eyes went to the source of the voice. Locke
    was standing erect with legs firmly apart, the basin safe in
    the crook of one arm, the other hand resting in a fist on
    his hip. As he tore away his blood-sodden mask, a sneer
    twisted his lips; he seemed utterly oblivious of the gore
    pouring down to his chin and the steel protruding from his
    spurting eye-socket. As Bragg and the prisoners watched in
    utter astonishment, he raised his free hand to the scalpel
    grip, with a single hard pull wrenched it out and cast it to
    the floor. Uncaring of the black-and-red hole mutilating his
    face, he flung back his head and laughed. Only a few of the
    captives were not too amazed to gag and retch at the sight.
         After an eternity of a few seconds, Locke glared back
    to them with intact eye and ruined socket, the red cascade
    down half his face slowed to a rivulet. "You fools!" he
    gloated. "You poor helpless imbeciles! Did you think HE
    would let HIS favorite die? Did you think HE would let
    anything stop us? And did you think HE or I would let you go
    unpunished for this?"
         "Dear God in Heaven," Geiger whispered.
    
      Locke ran his remaining eye across nine appalled faces.
    He obviously felt not the least twinge of pain from the
    bleeding crack of the other. "Oh God," Nyland breathed to
    Kronk beside him, "we are in it now."
         "Just a little secret between HIM and me," their captor
    chuckled. "I didn't even share it with you, Alec, and
    certainly not with anyone else. So what do you think of your
    Master now?"
         Bragg still held his gun level at Geiger, but his jaw
    had dropped all the way. "I - I think he's got a pretty good
    deal."
         "Indeed I do, Alec. And what have you to say, Vincent?
    Vincent? VINCENT?" Locke began glancing around at all
    compass points. Suddenly his half-gaze lit on the steel door
    of his operating room - and saw how it stood unlocked and no
    more than an inch ajar. Under the gore smearing it, his face
    lost whatever grace-notes of human color it still had. "Hell
    and damnation," he roared, "the brat's gone to betray me!"
         Alec looked to the door too. "Not little chickenshit
    Vinnie," he assured Locke. "He'd never go to the cops - too
    scared they'd bust him too."
         "We can't take that chance, Alec. Not now, not this
    close."
         "But won't HE protect us? HE's kept everyone from
    finding us so far - hell, HE's kept you alive! How could
    Vinnie make any difference?"
         Locke shook his head grimly. "Vincent knows too much. I
    fear that in HIS incomplete state, HE might not be able to
    silence the brat, or throw off a pursuit guided by one who
    has been here before. No gambling now; we must go!"
         "Go where, Master?"
         Worried as he was, Locke permitted himself a knife-edge
    smile, made more hideous by the gore smearing his mouth. "To
    Stanford ... and the other of the great transplant centers."
    The prisoners listened rapt, glimmers of hope waking. Locke
    conceding defeat, the police possibly alerted ... "We'll
    bring as much of the equipment as we can fit in the van;
    that will make the next - the final attempt easier. By the
    time the police get here, they'll find nothing but ashes."
         Bragg showed his yellowed teeth. "Cool. And the
    prisoners?"
         Locke grinned to match. "I just told you, Alec."
    
         The committee room of Chicago Hope Hospital was dark
    and quiet as the four officers, watched by Phillip Watters
    and Alan Birch, interrogated the terrified man who'd
    stumbled in out of the heart of the storm. "You say
    Christopher Ashton Locke IS trying to transplant a heart?"
         Vinnie Persico wiped his streaming brow again and did
    not meet Mulder's eyes. "Yeah, that's right. He's got your
    four missing surgeons, Doc, and that nurse," he looked
    shamefacedly up at Watters, "plus three doctors and some
    scared kid of a med student from Cook County General. And
    he's got a heart." He gulped. "Only it's not a human heart."
         "What IS it?" inquired Scully.
         "Don't know. Don't want to know. But it's ALIVE, it
    beats and everything! And some of my friends and your
    hospital's support people ... Locke got them to touch it."
    Persico trailed off.
         "Mr. Persico? Please go on," Fraser urged gently. "What
    happened when they touched it?"
         "I'm not sure ... like their minds got sucked out, or
    taken over, or something! They got turned into these
    zombies! And they obey Locke like robots ... because he's
    got this heart." Panting, he picked up a cup of water from
    the table before him and took a long pull. "Locke and Bragg
    feed it blood and talk about it like it's some kind of god
    or something ... and they're trying to get your big heart
    surgeon to put it in - into the kid." Another swallow of
    water. "I snuck out and came here."
         "You did the right thing," Fraser assured him.
         "Yeah, you did," Vecchio concurred. "But when are they
    going to do this - this transplant?"
         Persico stared at him in shock, his bloodshot brown
    eyes like bruised peaches. "Jesus Christ, didn't I tell you?
    They're doing it NOW!"
    
         "Move, you mindless, useless drones! HURRY! FASTER!"
    Locke stood at the center of his OR, waving his arms,
    barking orders at the thralls. Seven of them were engaged in
    gathering the medical equipment, starting with the larger
    pieces, and slowly - too slowly for their controller -
    moving it out of the building into the waiting vehicle. Two
    others had lifted the operating table, victim still pinioned
    upon it, and moved it out of the way so the last one could
    move freely, snapping manacles around the captives' wrists,
    subduing any resistance with fist and chokehold. In the
    strange trance, he and the others seemed to feel no pain,
    shrugging off returned blows like breaths. But even that was
    not so dreadful as the thought of where Alec Bragg was: on
    the ground floor, preparing to fire the building.
         Now the shaven goon reappeared; a dim sound of flames
    crackled up the stairs behind him. "I've got it going
    downstairs. Should roast the meat in about twenty minutes."
    He looked around with satisfaction to see two women and six
    men in chains, another man still bound immobile to the
    table. "By the way, Master, what're we gonna do with the
    zombies?"
         Distracted, Locke took a moment to answer. "The
    thralls? I'd been planning to burn them here too ... but we
    couldn't have gotten this far without them. Perhaps when
    they've finished the load-out, I'll just tell them to walk
    away. They won't remember a thing once they regain
    consciousness out of range of HIS heart."
         "What IS the range?" Bragg wanted to know.
         "I don't know; I haven't tested it. Still, it's
    immaterial." The diabolical smile bloomed again. "Once
    complete, HIS range of power should encompass the entire
    earth."
         Bragg nodded. "Yeah."
         Behind them, another voice was heard. "Hey, do we get
    our last requests?"
         "Well, if it isn't the audacious Dr. Ross!" Locke
    sneered, but his voice was not without affection. "An
    intriguing thought. How about this: I permit a single last
    request for the lot of you. Keep in mind that I've
    automatically ruled out two things: sparing any of your
    lives, and a swifter or gentler death."
         "How about kissing my ass?" suggested Kronk.
         "Quiet, Billy," Geiger commanded. More gently, "Go on,
    Dr. Ross."
         The pediatric resident acknowledged the heart surgeon
    with a respectful nod, and again engaged the enemy. "Cut
    Carter down from that table. Give him his clothes. If he has
    to die this young, let it be with some measure of dignity."
         "Chained beside the rest of you like the veal calf he
    is, with the fire shriveling his pretty face," Locke
    sneered. "Dignity! Still, it's harmless. Alec, see to it."
    Checking for one last time to see if any supplies had been
    missed, Locke found himself satisfied. "By the way, is the
    fire blocking the front stairway?"
         Bragg looked up from where he was sawing through the
    medical student's bonds with his serrated knife. "Not yet.
    Should be in about another five minutes, though." He then
    looked down and grinned into Carter's face. "Another fifteen
    after that, this wooden floor up here should burn through
    ... and bye-bye, fancy doctors." A burst of giggling ended
    the line.
         "Very good. I shall wait for you in the van. Don't be
    long." Locke departed, herding the ten thralls ahead of him.
         "Hell no. I don't wanna fry." Bragg pocketed the knife
    and brought out his gun again. The prisoners heard him
    mutter, much lower, "With one eye, I hope to hell he lets ME
    drive ... " A single quick pull yanked the duct-tape gag
    from Carter's mouth; the student's first sound was a yelp of
    pain. "Wouldn't make a big deal about that if I was you,"
    Bragg needled. "Wait'll the fire gets here!" With his free
    hand he grabbed a bundle of clothing from a now empty shelf
    and flung it at the young man, who barely had time to don
    his pants before Bragg snapped shackles on his feet and
    dragged him from the tabletop.
         "Here, share a ring with your lady friend." The chain
    went through the same bolt to which Lewis' was fastened.
    "After all, you ARE gonna burn together." As he drew his
    shirt on, Carter proudly ignored the giggling thug, but
    before he could button it, his wrists were seized and
    manacles slapped around them.
         Locke's man took a moment to sweep a wild, gratified
    look across them all as he turned in a circle. "Too bad I
    can't stay to hear you scream - "
         Suddenly Bragg's gloating cut off in a grunt as a
    handcuff chain flashed before his face, then slammed against
    his chin. He was jerked from his feet by the pile-driver
    pressure of a pair of elbows ramming into his back; his
    pistol spun from his grasp as both hands scrabbled madly at
    the chain a split second before the sound of a ghastly
    crack.
         Standing erect at his full six-foot-plus height, Kronk
    slacked the circle of his arms and handcuffs to let the body
    fall. "Man, it sure took that bastard long enough to turn
    his back on me," he observed.
         Nyland checked pulse and pupils on the body. "He's
    gone. You must not know your own strength, Billy." He closed
    the blank, nearly colorless eyes; in spite of himself, he
    smiled. "Is it a breach of professional ethics to say 'Good
    job'?"
         "Not here," was Geiger's ruling.
         But amid the general relief, Lewis was swiftly
    searching the body, hands checking every pocket. On her face
    elation slowly mutated into concern ... then wide-eyed
    panic. She raised her head, spoke in a stunned voice as if
    not believing her own words. "Guys ... there's no key."
         "WHAT?" Kronk instantly crouched down for his own
    search. "It's got to be on him somewhere!" Desperately he
    pawed the corpse. "The son of a bitch has GOT to have the
    key ... "
         Greene meanwhile picked through the small pile of
    personal effects his friend HAD found in Bragg's pockets.
    Wallet, folded knife, unmarked pill bottle, something that
    looked like a human knucklebone ... He looked through
    everything. "She's right," he concluded, tone affectless.
    "No key."
         "God," gasped Ross. Then he noticed the fallen gun.
    "Maybe we can shoot through the chains!"
         Kronk ceased his scrabbling through the dead man's
    clothes and sat like stone. Next to him, Nyland's voice
    seemed weighted with the same stone. "Lead won't cut steel."
         A few sighs rose, then all voices died; the place was
    silent except for the increasing rumble of the flames below.
    Tentacles of smoke had already begun coiling through cracks
    in the floor, which grew steadily hotter. Carter squeezed
    shut his eyes in an attempt to be brave; Ross patted the
    student's back to remind him he wasn't alone. Lewis sidled a
    little closer to Greene, who clasped her hands while
    thinking of his daughter, hoping the child wouldn't be told
    how her father perished.
         Camille Shutt looked down at her husband as he lay
    within the circle of her arms, his head pillowed on her
    breast, her gown stained with the blood of his tattered
    back. His manacled hands enclosed hers tenderly. Sorrow
    overflowed her eyes; as a tear fell and touched his cheek,
    his own eyes opened to meet hers. *Sometimes,* he mused,
    *hope itself can be the cruelest torture of all ... *
         "Aaron," she whispered almost too softly, "if we both
    must die now ... at least we'll be together." Unable to
    answer, he managed the smallest trace of a smile.
         Geiger surveyed his companions with an eagle's gaze,
    pride in his eyes where fear should have been. "Ladies and
    gentlemen, at this time I suggest we be proud of the way we
    acquitted ourselves. We can die without regrets." With one
    hand he took and snapped open the dead Bragg's knife; the
    other curled around the grip of the fallen gun. "Meanwhile,
    for those unwilling to wait for the fire, the late Alec
    Bragg has left a couple of quicker ways out."
    
         The little rented Ford slid along strange rain-rivered
    streets on the track of Ray Vecchio's grand old green Buick.
    Every so often a flash would rip the sky and pour a split-
    second's light down the buildings, and the thunder cursed.
    So did Mulder behind the wheel. " 'Hog Butcher for the
    World,' " he growled, " 'Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,'
    Impossible Place for Out-of-Towners to Navigate in the Rain
    - damn, Scully, I'm glad Vecchio knows where we're going!"
    He pulled the car out of a sudden skid and gunned the engine
    after the 1971 Riviera.
         "Just watch the road, Mulder," his partner advised. Her
    mind was back at Chicago Hope with their informer Vinnie
    Persico. Hard not to pity the pathetic little man. They'd
    left him in the custody of Dr. Watters and his hospital
    security, local uniforms on the way, with Vecchio's
    reassurance that the District Attorney would probably go
    easy on him on account of his help, and theirs that the US
    Attorney would do likewise. Good thing that Persico was
    already in a hospital; he looked like a candidate for either
    a heart attack or a suicide attempt, whichever came first
    ... but thank God he'd given them the address.
         In the back seat of Vecchio's Riviera, Constable
    Fraser's arms were full of trembling fur-covered muscle. The
    closer they came to the address Persico had given, the more
    frightened the white wolf grew; now the poor beast was on
    the verge of walleyed panic. Even a constant stream of soft
    words and stroking barely kept him from a terrified leap at
    the car window. The noise of whimpering was making Vecchio
    even more nervous than he already had to be. "What the
    hell's got into Dief, Fraser?"
         "I don't know. I just don't know." Fraser felt himself
    in an unaccustomed shudder; the wolf had never been wrong
    yet, and the officer had to wonder just what kind of horror
    awaited them ahead.
         "That's the place!" Vecchio declared; then, "Jesus Mary
    Joseph!" Quickly he yanked out his cellular phone, threw it
    at Fraser. "Call the fire department!" He rammed the Buick
    hard across a rain-swollen gutter and halfway up the
    sidewalk before slamming to a halt before the blazing
    building.
         Fraser had his door open and was plunging into the
    storm even as he reported the fire. Passing Vecchio fumbling
    with car door and gun, he tossed the telephone back with a
    terse command: "Cover the front door, Ray." Behind him he
    left Diefenbaker, huddled on the floor of the car and stiff
    with terror.
         "Hey, you can't go in there, Benny," shouted Vecchio,
    "you haven't got a gun!"
         "They do." The toss of Fraser's head indicated the FBI
    agents even now tumbling out of their car at the curb.
         Scully flung back flame-red hair in the rain and stared
    at the flame that mirrored it. "My God," she gasped.
    "Persico said the second floor - we might not be too late!"
         Mulder stood stunned for a moment, as if meeting the
    gaze of a mortal enemy. Then his gun emerged. "Scully, go
    around and check for a back door."
         "No, Mulder, you can't go in there - !" But he was
    already running to Fraser's side. Lightning flashed,
    freezing like a camera the image of their charge.
         Canadian Mountie and federal agent assaulted the door
    together - and recoiled together from the blast of heat that
    tore a steaming gap in the storm. The entire ground floor
    was a mass of flames, eating floor and walls, swarming up
    support pillars, licking at the wooden ceiling. The
    stairwell looked like a cataract of the Phlegethon. "No way
    in here," Mulder concluded, squinting in the light of
    destruction.
         Fraser remembered what he'd seen on approach. "Fire
    escape around the corner." He was already in motion, Mulder
    at his heels. Each man gained the end of the iron ladder in
    a single jump, kept his grip on the wet rungs, and rose up
    the slippery way.
    
         Vecchio felt like a fool, covering the front door as
    his unofficial partner climbed the fire escape. He'd seen
    into that inferno - nothing but NOTHING would come through
    that door alive.
         The detective didn't turn as Scully came up beside him.
    With her eyes she followed their companions' progress up the
    wet steel steps and through the second-story window into the
    smoke. "We'd be redundant up there," she observed to the
    local cop. "I'm checking the back. Stay here." With that,
    her gun was out and she was gone into a night full of rain;
    alone again, Vecchio felt even dumber. His own jurisdiction,
    and why the hell was he always taking orders from out-of-
    towners?
         Around the opposite side from the fire escape and to
    the back of the building ... Scully saw a back door slightly
    ajar, fire glowing from it. Parked a few feet away was a big
    black commercial van, its back doors also open. Weapon at
    the ready, silent, step stealthy, she approached.
         A peek into the vehicle ... inside, large dark shapes
    bright here and there with steely glints, and the rattle of
    rain on the metal roof. The van was packed to the limit of
    its suspension with medical equipment. The ruby of Scully's
    lips gleamed in a quiet smile.
         Now around to the front. A careful look through the
    driver's window showed empty seats. That meant Locke and
    Bragg had either fled on foot, were trapped or dead in the
    burning building, or still lurked around here somewhere -
         A hard ring of metal suddenly touched the nape of her
    neck through her dripping hair. "So sorry to have brought
    you out on a dreadful wet night like this, Agent Scully. But
    if you would be so kind as to drop that pistol before I am
    forced to use my own ... "
         She obeyed.
    
         The second-floor window above the fire escape was
    locked; that deterred Fraser only for the second it took to
    smash through. Mulder tumbled in after him, the sleeve of
    his rain-sodden coat held up to protect him from the acrid
    smoke rolling through the broken glass. His ears filled with
    the sound of the fire roaring below ... and coughing.
         There they were: two women, eight men - no, seven men -
    and a corpse. They sat in a tight little group waiting for
    the end, like cattle penned in stockyards, haloed by smoke
    and the murderous heat. It took a moment to discern their
    chains through the gray pall. The coughing was now studded
    with cries: "Thank God!" "They made it!" "Over here!"
    Upraised hands rattled manacles toward the rescuers.
         Mulder pawed for his handcuff key. "You have your cuff
    key, Constable?" he shot at Fraser.
         "Right here. We'd best hurry before this floor gives
    way!"
         As they covered the few yards of hell-hot floorboard,
    Mulder was close to prayer: *Please, let those be standard
    cuffs and leg irons, or ... * He slammed to a halt beside
    the first prisoner he reached, a slim handsome boy, and
    thrust the key into the fetters on his bare feet. Click.
    Click. They fell open, releasing Carter.
         "Don't bother with the cuffs," Mulder advised the
    Mountie through his own first spasm of choking, "we'll
    handle those outside!" Fraser didn't need to be told. Chains
    steadily dropped from feet; rescued captives helped their
    colleagues up and toward the shattered window, the storm 
    and freedom.
         "Not me!" commanded Geiger as Fraser approached with
    his key. "That man's wounded; get him first!" But even as
    Geiger steered rescue toward them, Mulder appeared beside
    Camille and Aaron Shutt. As the agent opened their chains,
    Fraser freed the heart surgeon, who leaped across the
    blistering, trembling floor toward his friend. "Other side,
    Camille." Geiger got his shoulders under the taller man's,
    and with the nurse steadying her husband's body at the left,
    the three struggled toward the window as one.
         One victim remained to be released; Mulder left that to
    Fraser and went to the dead body that now lay alone, face
    down. He tried to draw a deep breath not too clogged with
    smoke, and turned it over to make an identification. The
    face was one he'd hoped to see. "Alec Bragg. Anyone know how
    he died?"
         "Yeah," grunted the last prisoner with a distinct note
    of pride, "I broke his goddamn neck." Kronk rose to his
    unchained feet.
         Fraser gave him a gentle shove. "You'd better get to
    the window; this floor's about to collapse. You too, Agent
    Mulder!"
         Mulder stood and brought up the rear. Ahead of him,
    people steadily climbed out, crowding onto the fire escape
    and beginning the slippery, hazardous way down as Fraser
    unlocked their handcuffs in turn. Just as the FBI man
    reached the sill, a dragon's roar sounded behind ... Mulder
    turned to see the corpse of Alec Bragg vanish in a crash and
    a blast of sparks into the inferno below as the floor gave
    way at last. He pulled himself onto the rain-slicked iron
    ladderway with the others and tried not to think about how
    that could've been all of them.
         Kronk helped him up. "Hey, I remember you; you're that
    FBI agent came by this morning!" He smiled. "Thanks for
    saving us. Pull off a few more like this, and you guys might
    be forgiven for Ruby Ridge and Waco."
         "Shut up, Billy," Nyland advised.
    
         Scully shuddered and Locke chuckled at the sound of the
    fiery crash from within. "Pity about all those poor
    innocents, eh, Agent Scully - or may I call you Dana? Yes, I
    believe I will. After all, with dear faithful Alec gone,
    your help will come in handy."
         She held her voice even. "And just what kind of help do
    you expect from me?"
         "Now, now, lovely lady, I hope you'll spare me any
    tiresome expressions of defiance; I had quite enough of
    those from that wolfpack of doctors." Scully felt a steel
    loop close around her right wrist; efficiently Locke pulled
    both hands behind her back and shackled her left wrist too.
    "You're in my power now ... and with just a touch, you'll be
    in HIS ... " One hand held the gun to her back, the other
    stroked the dark mass of a plastic bag that hung tied to his
    belt. Scully heard a sloshing noise - and below it, almost
    inaudible, a quiet, steady pulse. She did not speak.
         Locke shoved the nose of the gun under her left ear.
    "Time to go, Dana. A shame to lose the van and all that fine
    equipment, but I must carry on by myself - with the help of
    one beautiful, mindless thrall." Scully inhaled deeply,
    slowly; sighed and moved forward into the night.
         Around the corner, across the cracked rain-washed
    street they went and into the deeper darkness of another
    building's shadow. Scully looked back and felt her heart
    float at the sight of the figures massed on the fire escape
    of the burning structure. They were coming down, one by one,
    safe, free; was Mulder among them? He had to be - yes, there
    he was, in sodden coat and dripping hair, made mysterious by
    firelight. If only she could cry out to him, but the gun in
    the hand of her unseen captor -
         Lightning blazed across the sky; from his perch on the
    fire escape Mulder saw two figures suddenly thrown into
    relief against the building across the street. One was tall,
    skeletal, pale skin and ink-black clothes soaked in blood, a
    grisly cavity in his face in the place of a left eye. He
    held a gun to the head of - "SCULLY!"
         "I'm all right, Mulder!" she cried back as her captor
    grabbed her, turned and shoved her down a black alley; they
    vanished, applauded by the thunder.
         "Can you take it from here, Constable?" Not waiting for
    an answer, Mulder darted off down the iron steps, Locke's
    freed prisoners making way for him. As he swung to the
    street, Ray Vecchio came tearing around the corner on an
    intercept course. "Stay here, Detective!" Mulder commanded.
         But the other grinned, with a glint in his eye and a
    gun in his hand. "Not a chance, out-of-towner!"
         Mulder wasn't going to argue and simply plunged ahead
    in pursuit as the local cop caught up and joined him. "He's
    heading for the river," Vecchio said with certainty.
         Mulder didn't answer as he strained to keep their
    quarry in sight through the rain and the darkness. How the
    hell were Locke and his hostage able to move so fast? Scully
    must be close to collapse - suddenly the agent felt
    something stab through him, and he forced more speed ... but
    again the enemy disappeared into shadows, Scully driven
    ahead of him.
    
         Panting, stiches ripping grooves of pain down her
    sides, Scully stumbled out onto the bridge. Below her the
    Chicago River's great North Branch rose with the rain,
    behind her the mutilated, maddened Locke drove her onward.
    "You'll never escape," she declared.
         "Yes, I will, thanks to you," her tormentor hissed.
    "And once HE is complete, no one will escape HIM - "
         "Freeze, psycho!"
         Locke whirled and whirled Scully with him to Vecchio's
    voice. Mulder and the detective were poised in a wash of
    streetlight shine at the western end of the bridge, guns
    ready. "Let her go, Locke," Mulder advised. "Give it up and
    let her go. It's over."
         But Locke backed up, slowly but steadily, toward the
    east along the edge of the bridge, one arm locked across his
    captive's throat and the other leveling his gun. "It's not
    over! It will never be over until I have all of you
    groveling like dogs at my feet!"
         Mexican standoff. Scully strained for air against her
    captor's imprisoning arm. *It's up to me ... * The black bag
    was slapping on Locke's thigh, still making its thick wet
    sound and soft, sinister pulsation ... Ignoring her
    protesting shoulders, Scully quickly stretched her manacled
    hands back as far as they'd go and snatched blind - her
    fingers closed around a thick knot of plastic and she
    yanked, at once flinging herself forward against Locke's
    grip with full strength. The bag came away in her hands, she
    lurched free ... Scully slammed hard against the parapet,
    bones jarred with the impact; her hands flew open. The bag
    spun off the bridge and down, down to splash and vanish in
    black water.
         "NOOO!" Locke's shriek scarred the night. He snatched
    empty air with his free hand as Scully stumbled away, then
    shrieked again. "NOW YOU DIE, BITCH!" The agent looked down
    the barrel of his gun, steeled herself for the bullet -
         Four shots boomed through the storm, louder than
    thunder. Locke jerked with the first impact, then spun, then
    fell; a darker stain spread across the dark asphalt. In
    spite of her bound hands, Scully crouched beside him to hear
    a helpless whimper: "Save me, help me - YOU said YOU'd
    always help me ... I'm YOURS and YOU're mine ... " Death
    bubbled in his throat, and it was over.
    
         " 'The way you wear your hat,
         The way you sip your tea,
         The mem'ry of all that,
         No, no, they can't take that away from me ... ' "
         "If he cuts half as well as he sings," said Dana
    Scully, eyes bright on Jeffrey Geiger at the piano, "he's a
    great surgeon."
         "He cuts better than he sings," Aaron Shutt informed
    her. "Trust me, it's possible." He cast a glance around the
    half-lit, inviting interior. Over at the bar, young John
    Carter was shyly extending a hand to Dr. Lewis, asking her
    to dance ... Susan was accepting, letting him lead her to
    the floor, entering his arms. Shutt smiled. At the next
    table, Ross and Kronk were starting a spirited exchange
    about something or other, Danny Nyland leaning back and
    listening with a beer in his hand and a smirk on his face.
    Now Ray Vecchio was jumping into it too, and suddenly Doug
    and Billy were both dogging him at once. At the same table
    but definitely not of it was the dignified Constable Benton
    Fraser, RCMP, looking both very polite and as if he'd rather
    be somewhere else. And above it all flowed the sweet
    currents of the piano and Geiger's voice, pure and seductive
    at once, tenderly caressing the song and all present.
         *It doesn't get any better than this,* Shutt thought,
    reaching out and touching his wife's golden hair. She smiled
    and sidled her chair closer so he could put his arm around
    her shoulders; at the touch of her, the last of the pain in
    his back seemed to subside.
         Watching the couple, Dr. Mark Greene and Special Agent
    Fox Mulder had the same bittersweet look in their eyes. Then
    Mulder looked away, towards the man at the piano, asking,
    "Does Dr. Geiger do this often?"
         "Every time he needs to," replied Shutt. "And after
    what we've all just survived, he needs to! I expect him to
    hit a full-tilt Stephen Sondheim bender before the hour."
         "That'd be nice," Mulder commented. He turned back to
    the neurosurgeon. "You realize this is the first time we've
    ever closed a case and then gone out drinking with the
    victims."
         "I think we should do it more often." Scully picked up
    her beer. "You like to tell me one can't always go by the
    book, Mulder." She looked at the singing surgeon. "Does he
    take requests?"
         "You can try," Camille answered. "After what you and
    your partner did for us, not even Jeffrey's rude enough to
    refuse you!"
         "I still can't believe it happened," Greene said with
    an amazed shake of his head. "Thank God everyone's okay -
    even those poor souls Locke had enslaved seem to have
    recovered - but it all seems like some grisly nightmare. I
    don't think I'll ever be afraid of anything that comes into
    the ER again!"
         The comment left Camille reflective. "In a strange way,
    it's almost good to have gone through it. We all got to see
    what we're capable of - under pressure that makes the OR
    look like a theme park!"
         But Greene looked down at the tabletop, as if ashamed.
    "I got to see some of what I'M capable of ... and it's not
    pretty."
         "What do you mean, Dr. Greene?" asked Scully,
    concerned.
         He met her eyes. "I never knew that - that I could hate
    so passionately." Now he looked to Shutt. "Dr. Shutt, when
    you were being tortured ... well ... I heard what Bragg said
    to you ... oh, God ... I never wanted to kill anyone
    before."
         The other doctor grinned disarmingly. "Why feel guilty
    about it? It's perfectly understandable - and I'm
    flattered."
         "Besides," added Camille, "can you imagine what I
    wanted to do to him?" She glanced toward the next table.
    "Envying Billy Kronk is a new experience for me!"
         Greene managed his own smile. "It still scares me." He
    shrugged. "I found myself wishing I could channel all the
    hatred I felt for him, all my anger and frustration, and
    just send it against him in one blast of energy ... " He
    drifted off, then recovered. "But that's impossible."
         Mulder sat up, eyes flashing. "Actually, there are
    cases - "
         Scully suddenly clapped a hand across her partner's
    mouth. "MULDER!"
    
         Far below the sheltering surface of the Chicago River,
    HIS heart waited, and throbbed, and dreamed ...
    
    THE END
    

* * *


End file.
